#Principal Bosch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ambrossart · 2 months

Text

PAPER MEN

— CHAPTER 31

SUMMARY: All Evelyn Tozier wanted to do was make Derry High School a safer place for her kid brother. Well, somewhere between kissing Patrick Hockstetter and telling the principal to go f*** himself, things got a little off track. Now she’s stuck in the middle of a bizarre love triangle with two of Derry’s most troubled teens while her little brother and his friends hunt down a creepy, child-eating circus clown. This year, summer can’t come fast enough.

PAIRINGS: Henry Bowers x Tozier!Sister; Patrick Hockstetter x Tozier!Sister

WARNINGS: violence, profanity, sexual content, bullying, sexual assault, physical abuse, emotional abuse, all kinds of abuse, trauma, mental illness, implied/referenced self-harm, child death, angst, lots of angst, recreational drug use, underage drinking, underage sex, love triangles, toxic relationships, slow burn, slow build

WORD COUNT: 11k

PAPER MEN MASTERPOST | FANFICTION MASTERLIST

“She’s not worth it.”

Why did Henry say that? Why, after everything they had been through together, did he…?

The question came to him as a whisper, speaking from a place far away. A place he could no longer reach. A place he could no longer see. Before. It was speaking to him from Before: before he told Evelyn she was dressed like a whore, before he saw Patrick’s hand crawl underneath her skirt (and she didn’t push his hand away), before Henry stormed up to her, yelled at her, grabbed her so hard he left a bruise, before he got drunk and passed out after the bonfire, before Manda Bosch followed him into the woods, pinned him up against the tree, and asked in that sultry voice, Has anyone kissed you yet?

Yes.

Yes, Henry could finally answer that now. Evelyn had kissed him. He had kissed her.

Before.

Before his suspension, before the trunk, before the stolen shirts, before he had to suffer through that long, lonely, miserable summer, sitting alone in his room, alone on his porch, listening to the phone ring day after day but being too scared to answer it, too scared, too damn scared.

Before he ripped his arm away and fucked everything up.

(MAYBE I’M JUST NOT INTERESTED, EVELYN. EVER THINK OF THAT?)

Before. Henry desperately wanted to go back to Before. Back to Evelyn’s bedroom. Back to that soft floral quilt that always smelled like her body wash. Lying on it while she worked quietly at her desk. Staring at all the postcards on her wall. Boston, San Francisco, Austin, Tallahassee. Imagining he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Imagining Evelyn was there with him. Happy. Peaceful. Safe.

Henry would have given anything to go back to that, but he couldn’t. He was trapped in this house—this empty, haunted house—and it was never going to let him go. Even if he kicked and screamed, even if he hammered his fists, the front door would always be

closed.

The classroom door was closed; yes, Henry remembered now. Mrs. Lafferty’s door was closed. He had gone back to talk to Evelyn, to tell her that he hadn’t meant what he said, not any of it, and that he didn’t care about what happened in the lunchroom. He didn’t give a shit about Patrick Hockstetter and his roaming hand. He didn’t care that Evelyn didn’t push him away. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. If she meant what she wrote on those four single-spaced pages, then Henry didn’t need to hear anything else. Those words were enough. Forever, they would be enough.

But the door was closed when he arrived, and Henry seemed to shrink before it, back to a four-year-old boy nervously sucking his thumb. He had wet the bed and now stood outside his parents’ bedroom, feeling dirty and ashamed, listening to the metal springs creak to the steady rhythm of their sexmaking. A closed door meant go away, Henry. If you open this door, someone had better be bleeding—or there would be blood; oh yes sir, there would be blood.

Henry stood there for an unknown period of time, that old familiar terror thumping in his veins. A closed door meant adult business was in session. Go away, Henry, go away.

He opened the door and didn’t understand what he was seeing. The room felt hazy, dreamlike, his astonishment painting everything a surreal shade. Adult business was in session. Martin Davers was in the classroom and he had Evelyn bent over the desk just like he talked about doing… before. Hadn’t he talked about that before? Bend the little bitch over a desk. It’ll loosen her up a little. Yes, Martin had said that, he had, but that couldn’t have been happening now. Patrick had stopped him. He had stopped him when Henry could not. Patrick had dumped a bottle of beer on Martin’s lap while Henry sat there doing nothing—nothing except drinking, thinking, and hating, drinking, thinking, and hating, his temper flaring, muscles tightening with such useless anger, the same useless anger that was burning inside him now. A raging inferno that provided no warmth. What good are you, Henry? Do something, move, move!

And suddenly Evelyn’s eyes were on him, staring with an expression of slow, dazed panic. What are you doing here? her frightened eyes said. Go back to bed, Henry. Go back to bed!

Bed? Henry answered, horrified. Then he blinked his eyes and remembered.

He was six. He was six and standing in his pajamas. A crash had woken him in the night, and when he came downstairs, he found his parents arguing in the kitchen. Daddy had Mommy caught by her wrist and he was screaming at her: Who’d you get all prettied up for? Who? Who? And Mommy was crying in a red dress with a white-button front. She was sobbing and shaking her head. Nobody, nobody! Stop it, Oz, you’re hurting me! Her hands were wet and sudsy with dish soap. The kitchen faucet was still running. She had been cleaning up the dinner dishes while she waited for Daddy to come home. He strolled in after eleven, his eyes red and glassy, a half-empty beer bottle clutched in his hand. He came in expecting a hot meal, found an empty table, saw that red dress, and hurled the bottle straight at the wall. Smash! Glass shattered and roused Henry from a dreamless sleep. The smell of beer floated into the air like a fine mist. You’re drunk, Mommy kept saying. Just go to bed, Oz, you’re drunk! Then Daddy raised his hand to strike her. Mommy winced beneath it, anticipating a well-acquainted pain. She gasped as his hand fell not on her cheek, but on the front buttons of her dress. His hand came down hard, squeezed, and ripped her bust wide open. The white buttons went flying, bouncing, rolling. One skittered past Henry’s left foot. This is what you wanted, right? Yeah, I’ll give you what you want, you bitch; oh yeah, I’ll give you plenty.

But that wasn’t what she wanted, Henry thought with his six-year-old mind. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. His mother hadn’t dressed up for anyone that night. She just wanted to feel pretty again. To have a reason to smile when she looked in the mirror again.

Henry remembered. Now he remembered.

He had been sitting on the bathroom counter while she got ready that evening. Curling her hair. Powdering her face. Painting her lips. Dabbing concealer over the yellowing bruise under her left eye. It was just a stupid accident, she had told the funny nurse during her son’s most recent checkup. I must bruise easy. The nurse hadn’t believed her, not by half, but that was a problem for another day, so his mother concealed that, too. She swept it off her shoulder and slipped into her favorite red dress, a dress that had been hanging in her closet for the last six years because her husband didn’t take her out to dinner anymore. I can’t believe it still fits, she said, her voice bright with girlish excitement. Then she smiled at her son, turned around, stooped down, and lifted her hair so he could fasten the gold clasp of her necklace. Henry felt so much love for her back then. It lived in his heart every day.

(You’re such a good boy, she said, and kissed his cheek. Be my date tonight, okay?)

Even ten years later, as Henry saw Evelyn Tozier bent over the school desk, as he saw Martin Davers tear her yellow skirt with the same unconscionable rage that his father had inflicted upon his mother, he supposed part of him still loved her. But that love was blighted now, poisoned with hatred, the same bitter hatred that was currently pulsing, pulsing, pulsing through his veins. It made everything so perfectly clear. That red dress. Those scattering white buttons. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was what she deserved, wasn’t it?

His mother was a whore. She was a whore and she lied and she left him. She said she was going to the store to buy some chicken stock for dinner. Another special dinner date just for the two of them. She kissed Henry’s cheek, told him to be a good boy and wait for her, and Henry never saw her again. He waited; like a good boy, he waited.

Minutes turned into hours. Anxiety turned into fear. Fear into hatred. Because when Daddy came home that night, when he saw that dinnerless table, Henry was the one he found sitting in the kitchen, waiting like the good little boy he was. And that’s when Henry knew he hated her. Even when Daddy whipped his beer bottle at him, even when the glass shards jumped up and cut his face, Henry knew he hated her. Henry got the belt twice that night. Once for him. Twice for her. He took both whuppings and hated her for both of them. And as Henry lay in bed that night, aching all over, bleeding all over, he realized that his daddy had been right all along.

My mother was a whore. All women are whores, Evelyn, and so are you. I thought you cared about me. I thought you loved me. I thought you meant every word you wrote on those four single-spaced pages, so why, Evelyn, why?

(Nobody else will know)

Why did you say that? Because you’re embarrassed of me? Ashamed of me? You don’t want your friends to know what we did? What we almost did?

But I couldn’t do it. Yeah, I couldn’t do it, and I bet that was really fucking disappointing for you, wasn’t it? I couldn’t give you what you wanted, Evelyn, so now you’re trying to get it from someone else, from anyone else… anyone that’ll give it to you. Well now you’ll get what want, Evelyn. Martin will give you exactly what you want; oh yeah, he’ll give you plenty.

“She’s not worth it.”

Now Henry remembered why he said that. He pictured Evelyn’s face, his mother’s face, and he remembered everything. A yellow dress. A red dress. Buttons flying. Skirts tearing. You’ll get what you deserve, you bitch; oh yeah, you’ll get plenty.

The anger was still inside him, throbbing dully in his temples, turning his whole world a stormy, screaming red. He wandered through it like a child lost in a nightmare: out of the school; down Pasture Road; through Bassey Park; across the Kissing Bridge, where two years ago Henry decided that he never wanted to find Evelyn’s initials carved, not unless they were carved next to his; past the Derry Public Library, where Henry had taken Evelyn’s first kiss (because it felt wrong for anyone else to have it); down Kansas Street, the same street Henry had walked ten years ago, his muscles aching, his head pounding with the same sad, empty rage… and suddenly he found himself standing in Memorial Park again. He was six. He was sixteen. He had such a terrible headache. Succumbing to it, Henry sat down on the curb, put his head in his hands, and heard

“Did you get a brain freeze, too?”

a soft voice, Evelyn’s voice, speaking to him from Before, long before: the morning after his mother left.

It had been a warm summer day, sunny, breezy. Henry was sitting on the curb (just like he was doing now) when he felt someone sit down next to him. It was a girl, younger than he was, smaller than he was, dressed in a pink shirt with yellow flowers on the front. Her lips were stained a deep and absurd purple, but Henry hadn’t cared enough to ask why.

“Go away,” he said, but she didn’t. She just sat there staring at him with this dumb, fascinated expression, her head tossed to one side, purple lips slightly parted, as if struck by sudden bewilderment. Henry glared back at her uncomfortably, feeling vulnerable and exposed. He didn’t like those brown eyes of hers, so large and curious. They seemed to be searching for something, something Henry kept hidden deep inside him… and they found it; somehow, they found it.

He saw her hand coming toward him next, reaching, preparing to take it, and he smacked her hand away as hard as he could. It all happened so fast. Lightning fast. Henry never even had a chance to think about it. His fist made a loud, meaty whap! It was a very satisfying sound—the sound of power, the sound of respect, the sound of ill-mannered children finally being put back in their place.

But then those eyes, oh those curious brown eyes widened with such surprised hurt. The sight of them made Henry’s screaming red world bleed away. Guilt cut through him. His left hand uncurled and fell limp at his side. He had hit her too hard, much too hard, and now her hand was turning red, much too red. She cradled it against her chest and bore her pain in silence, just as his mother had.

“Sorry,” she said afterward. Her voice was soft and timid.

What are you saying sorry for? Henry thought, dumbfounded, while his culpable hand lay open beside him. He hadn’t meant to hit her so hard… or maybe he had. Henry just didn’t know.

They sat in tense, guilt-ridden silence for a moment. Then Henry caught her staring at him again, studying him.

“You have a cut on your face,” she said. “Does it hurt?”

“Huh?” Henry touched his hand to the apple of his cheek and felt the ghostly twinge of last night’s wound. His cut had started to bleed again, but only a little. “Oh… no.”

“Well, it looks like it hurts.” She looked down, observed her injured hand, and flexed it a few times: opening it, closing it, wiggling all of her fingers. She seemed satisfied, but Henry wasn’t. He really shouldn’t have hit her so hard.

“You should put a Band-Aid on that cut,” she said, “or else it could get infected.”

“Infected?”

“Mmhmm, and that would be bad… like really bad. You might need an amputation.”

“Am-pyuh-tay-shun?” The word was large and ominous. “What’s that?”

“It’s when the doctor cuts off part of your body. My friend Vic told me about it once. It sounds really scary.”

“They would cut off my face?”

“I guess so.”

Henry tried to imagine that, but he couldn’t.

“I think you’re lying,” he said. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“I’m not lying. I never lie.”

“Everyone lies.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“That’s a lie right there.”

Glaring at him, the girl opened her mouth to argue, snapped it closed without a word, and then forced a big huff of hot air through her nostrils. “Well, you should get one anyway.”

“Get what?”

“A Band-Aid. Just in case.”

Henry frowned. “I don’t have any Band-Aids.”

“You don’t? Hmm… well, doesn’t your mom have some?”

Henry’s frown deepened. It hurt too much to think about his mom right now. “I guess she does… or she did… but I don’t know where she keeps them.”

“Oh…” The girl pursed her lips tightly, seeming at a loss. “My mom keeps ours under the sink in her bathroom. She has a whole case of ‘em. I’m not supposed to go in there ‘cause there’s really dangerous stuff under the sink, chemicals and stuff, but…” She went quiet for a minute, lost in deep thought. Then she hopped to her feet. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

Back?

That word made Henry’s whole body tense up. He thought of his mother’s kitchen pantry, of that empty shelf where the chicken stock was supposed to sit, and he drew his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “If you wanna go, just go. You don’t have to make up a lie.”

“What? I’m not lying. I’m gonna go get you a Band-Aid. Then I’ll come right back.” She turned around, took a few steps, and stopped. “Hey, you’re not gonna leave, are you?”

“Huh?”

“If I come back and you’re not here, I’m gonna be really mad.”

Henry couldn’t imagine this girl being mad, not even a little bit.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said anyway.

“Pinky swear?”

“What?”

“Pinky swear!” She came to him with her right pinky out. Henry let her hook it around his. He felt like he had no other choice. “Now you better not be lying,” she said, “or else your pinky will fall off.”

“What?”

She giggled. “Just kidding! My dad says that all the time. It probably won’t happen, but you better keep your promise anyway, just in case.” She released his pinky and stepped back again, her warmth lingering on his skin. “I’ll be back in, uhh, five minutes, okay? Wait right here.”

She took off running and was gone. Henry sat on the curb and waited. Five minutes came, then went. Ten minutes came, then went. With each passing second, Henry felt his disappointment building, burning, rekindling his briefly forgotten hatred.

Everyone lies. Why did he think she would be any different?

Henry considered leaving himself. A couple of times he almost did, but then he looked down at his pinky, remembered his promise, and sat back down. Henry waited for twenty minutes that day, sure that she was never coming back, scared that she was never coming back, and finally he heard her cheerful voice ringing in the distance:

“Mission accomplished!”

She was running and panting and lugging a giant plastic case along by its handle. She had gone to get a Band-Aid and came back with her mother’s first aid kit.

“Why’d you bring the whole thing?” Henry asked, marveling at her.

“I didn’t know what size to get.”

Turns out, the girl wasn’t a liar, after all. She just had no concept of time.

She sat down beside him, caught her breath, popped open the case, and started pulling out Band-Aids and comparing them against the size of Henry’s cut. “Too big… too big… way too big… hmm…” She held up a tiny yellow Band-Aid and kept it there for a moment, her brown eyes taking on a prideful shine. “This one. This one’s perfect.” While unwrapping it, she said, “These are my special Band-Aids, but you can have one. I don’t mind.”

She pressed the Band-Aid to his cheek. It almost felt like a kiss.

“There,” she said. “You should be okay now.”

Henry felt his face get hot, but not unpleasantly so. “They won’t cut my face off?”

“I hope not.” The girl smiled at him, a sunny, perfect smile, and Henry’s face got hotter still. “I’m Evelyn, but you can call me Evie if you want. Most people do.”

“Okay.”

Evelyn giggled. Her laugh was as sweet and disarming as she was. “You’re supposed to say your name now.”

“Oh…” Henry reached down to dust off some of the dirt from his sneakers. Hers were white, pretty, and had been doodled all over with colored markers. “It’s Henry. My name’s Henry.”

She said Henry was a very nice name, that it suited him perfectly, but Henry had never thought so, not until he heard her say it.

Evelyn.

(You know I’ve got a little girl about your age)

So her name was Evelyn, but you can call me Evie if you want. Most people do. But he wouldn’t. No, if most people called her Evie, then Henry didn’t want to. He wanted to call her something different. Something special. Something that made her think of him. Only him. Henry didn’t know where this feeling came from, but he knew it couldn’t be ignored.

“Hey, Evie!” someone shouted from far away.

Henry looked across the street and saw two boys standing on the other side. One was small and scrawny, with dirty blond hair, a shade lighter than Henry’s own. The other boy was taller, with darker hair, and he didn’t look like he wanted to be there at all. Evelyn’s face lit up as soon as she saw them. Meanwhile, Henry sat in her shadow, feeling cold and alone. He didn’t like these two boys, whoever they were. He wanted them to go away.

“Jimmy,” Evelyn said, “you’re back!”

“Uh-huh!” The small boy—Jimmy—answered. “We’re heading over to the playground now if you wanna come.”

Evelyn gasped excitedly. “I can come? Really? You’re not fooling?”

The tall boy answered with an annoyed groan: “No, Evelyn, we’re not fooling you. Now hurry up before we change our minds.”

The small boy said something then, something Henry couldn’t quite hear, but whatever it was, it made the tall boy go quiet, shuffle back a step, and stare down at the ground. Henry didn’t like this tall boy, not at all, yet he couldn’t understand why. Was it his attitude? His tone? Or was it the way Evelyn looked at him, the way she perked up as soon as she heard his voice?

The answer didn’t matter anymore. Evelyn was already on her feet.

“This is my time to shine!” she said to herself. “Don’t mess this up, Evie, don’t mess this up!”

And now that cold feeling was back again. She was leaving. She was leaving with those two boys and Henry would never see her again. I don’t care, Henry decided. He wasn’t planning on sticking around anyway.

But then he heard Evelyn’s voice again and felt her bright smile warming his face.

“You wanna come to the playground with us? Vic can be a little mean sometimes, but Jimmy’s really nice. We can play on the jungle gym and the merry-go-round and swing on the swings. I like to swing real high and then jump off—shoom!—but I fall sometimes. Last week, I hurt my knee. See?” She showed Henry the scabbed-over scrape on her right knee. Henry thought she needed to be more careful. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, but my mom said I’m not allowed to jump off the swings anymore. She said I might break something, and that would be bad… Anyway, wanna come? It’ll be a lotta fun.”

Henry shook his head. He didn’t want to go to the playground, not if those boys were going, too.

“Oh…” She pouted a little. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at school then. I’m starting kindergarten tomorrow. I’m a little scared, but mostly excited. What grade are you in?”

“First grade,” Henry answered. His kindergarten teacher, Miss Kissel, had recommended he stay in kindergarten for another year (he wasn’t learning his letters fast enough), but his father didn’t think that was necessary. Now Henry wished he had been kept back. It would’ve been nice to see Evelyn at school every day.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Evelyn said, sounding equally disappointed. “Well, maybe I’ll see you at recess… maybe… but you’ll probably be playing with your other friends then. You’ll probably ignore me. Boys always get meaner when they’re with their other friends. It’s not really fair, but—”

“I don’t have any friends,” Henry told her, “but you probably won’t see me anyway.”

“Huh? Why not?”

“Because I’m running away today.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened. “Running away?” She clasped her hands over her mouth and stared at him in disbelief. It was as if Henry had just uttered the mother of all curse words. Shock and sadness swam in her eyes. In a heartbroken voice, she asked, “Why would you wanna run away?”

Her friends were calling out to her now: “Evie! Evie! Are you coming or not?”

“I’m coming!” Evelyn yelled back. “Don’t go without me, I’m coming!” She looked at her friends, then down at Henry, and her face darkened with conflicted pain. “I wanna go, but…”

In the end, she didn’t. She told her friends to go play without her.

“C’mon,” she said to Henry, “I wanna show you something,” and she took him to her special spot, which would eventually become their special spot, situated outside the Derry city limits.

“You said you wanted to get outta Derry, right? Well, here ya go! You’re officially outta Derry. Pretty neat, huh?”

It was just a rock on the side of the road, a giant rock surrounded by dirt, grass, and trees, yet it was the only place Henry could breathe freely, think clearly. Henry always wondered why that was. Maybe it was the location or maybe it was simply the company he kept. He and Evelyn stayed on that rock for the rest of the day, huddled together, sometimes talking (well, her talking, Henry listening), sometimes just sitting quietly and enjoying the silence. Afterward, as the sun began to set, she turned to him with the saddest smile Henry had ever seen.

“I have to go home now,” she said, “but you can stay if you want… or leave; I guess you can do that too, if you still want to.”

Henry had every intention of running away that day. In hindsight, he probably should have.

But how could he leave when Evelyn was still stuck in Derry?

She’s not worth it, Henry thought presently, soberly, his anger finally receding into a woeful grey calm. In front of him, cars whooshed past in blurs of black, blue, red, and white. It was almost six now, Henry figured. Evelyn was probably on her way home.

Did I really say that to her? Did I? Did I?

Yes. Yes, he did.

This realization made his stomach wrench with such sickening guilt. He hadn’t meant to say that. She had to know he had never meant to say that.

(not out loud, anyway)

Another wave of guilt crashed over him. Bearing it, Henry lifted his head and felt a tear escape his eye. Just one. One was all he could manage. It slipped out, stopped halfway down his face, and dried there against the wind. No more tears came after that. It had been a long time since Henry allowed himself to have a proper cry. He didn’t trust himself anymore. The last time had seriously fucked things up for him.

I guess that’s my fault, too.

Henry didn’t know why he sought out Evelyn that day, why that one beating broke him more than any of the others. His dad found out he was failing math, geography, and English, and Henry would have to attend summer school if he wanted to stay on track. His dad said summer school wasn’t an option. Butch couldn’t afford to be down a man during the farm’s busiest season. Henry refused. He didn’t want to repeat the ninth grade, fall behind, and watch his friends go on without him—and he wouldn’t. Butch, saying nothing, struck him with his open palm and sent him sprawling across the kitchen floor. Then he ripped off his belt and hit him a dozen more times. At least. Henry stopped counting after a while. See, it didn’t matter how many times that belt came down, how hard it came down; all Henry could think about was Evelyn moving on without him, graduating without him, getting out of Derry, going off to college, getting married, raising a family, all while Henry was stuck right here. In this house. In this hell. Alone.

Maybe that was what broke him. Maybe that was why he so desperately needed to see her that day.

And when Evelyn brought him into her house, into her room, into her bed, when Henry sat upon her soft floral quilt and saw all the postcards on her wall—depicting places Henry would probably never see himself—something inside him shattered. He started sobbing uncontrollably, releasing a near decade’s worth of pent-up emotions. He thought of his mother, of the last kiss she ever gave him. He thought of her empty bed and her closet full of clothes. All her makeup. Her hairbrush. Her jewelry. Everything exactly as she left it. He thought of the broken picture frame on top of his dresser. He had torn out her photo years ago but kept the frame. It was still there, right next to the blue gel pen Evelyn had given him earlier that year. Henry never used it because he didn’t want the ink to run out, because he knew one day that pen would be the only thing he had left of her, and that made him cry even harder. Grief suffocated him. Reality slipped away from him. His mind skidded sideways and suddenly he was back in his house, in his kitchen, bawling under the table like a baby, like a scared little baby waiting for his mommy to come home. Except she was never coming home.

Why didn’t she come back for me? Why? Why?! I didn’t do anything wrong!!

That’s when he heard Evelyn’s voice and felt her warm weight next to him, friendly, womanly, perhaps even a little motherly… yeah, there was no denying that. Ten years ago, Henry’s mother walked out of his life. The next day, Evelyn entered it. She was five. She was fifteen. She was sitting right beside him, always beside him. It didn’t matter where Henry was, what he said, what he did, Evelyn was always there: as his friend, his mother, his lover, whatever Henry needed her to be—everything he needed her to be.

I think I’m putting too much on you, he realized then as he looked at her, her face awash with sympathy and sorrow, brown eyes absorbing his pain. How much more can you take before you break, I wonder. A lot? A little? Can you handle just a little more?

It was almost sadistic, the way he treated her, but Henry didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He ached so deeply and she was the only one who could make his pain go away. It was hard not to get a little greedy. Was it fair? Probably not, but then again life wasn’t fair, was it? Henry didn’t ask to be born into an abusive household. Didn’t ask for his mother to abandon him. Didn’t ask for Evelyn to wander over, sit down next to him, and smile that perfect smile. She just appeared. She appeared when Henry needed her most, almost like she was made for him. Why shouldn’t he use her as often as he pleased? However he pleased? Why shouldn’t he take and take and take until there’s nothing left? Henry hated himself for thinking this. Still he clung to her anyway. Selfishly. Desperately. He almost cried when he felt her hand on his skin, warm, soft, and just as she was about to pull away, he grabbed her hand and held it tighter against him, wanting her warmth, wanting her love, wanting everything she had.

Evelyn sucked in a silent breath and held it in her chest. An embarrassed flush had crept up her cheeks, but she did not withdraw her hand (of course she wouldn’t because she was perfect, because she was made for him). Her eyes softened and sought his earnestly, innocently. They told Henry he could take as much as he wanted, whatever he wanted… all she asked was for a little something in return.

Henry knew what she wanted. He had seen it in her eyes ten years ago.

Take it, he thought, surrendering to her. It’s broken and worthless now, but you can have it if you want. It’s probably all rotten inside, but you can have it if you want. I won’t fight you anymore; I won’t, I won’t, I promise. Just don’t blame me if it kills you in the end. I never asked for any of this.

She leaned forward and their lips met in a gentle kiss. It was soft, sweet, and stolen from him far too soon.

“Sorry,” Evelyn said, wincing as she pulled away. Her brown eyes were filled with guilt.

What are you saying sorry for…? Henry wondered dazedly, entranced, her candy-like taste lingering on his tongue. I’m the one you should be blaming right now, hating right now… I never should have kissed you.

That, like so many other things, had been a purely selfish act. Henry hadn’t taken Evelyn’s first kiss. He stole it. He stole it because he couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone… no, be honest… not anyone… someone… someone Henry had resented from the beginning… someone he begrudged and befriended all the same.

Victor. Victor Criss. He may have dyed his hair a different color, but he was still the same smug bastard that Henry remembered. He may have claimed that he and Evelyn weren’t friends anymore (sure, Vic, sure), but he still stared at her when he thought no one was watching, when he thought Henry wasn’t watching.

No offense, Vic, but you’re a real shitty liar. I may not be a math whiz like you, but even I know how to put two and two together.

Evelyn was always talking about him. Even when he ignored her, she was always talking about him. Her little friend Vic. Vic was cool. Vic was smart. Vic had POTENTIAL. He didn’t belong with guys like Henry, who was failing most of his classes, or Belch, who was almost failing his classes. Vic was smart, annoyingly smart. He would probably get into a good college, get a good job, marry a good girl, and move far away from Derry. Because Vic came from a good home with good parents who loved him. Sure, his dad may have worked too much and his mom may have tried too hard, but they both loved him. And Vic still had the nerve to complain? Who did he think he was fooling? Belch’s dad died before he was born, Henry’s mom abandoned him and his dad beat him almost every night, and they were supposed to feel sorry for Victor Criss and his perfect life? Vic had everything and he took it all for granted. He took school for granted, he took his parents for granted, and he took Evelyn for granted. He didn’t deserve her first kiss.

But it was still his. Even if Vic didn’t want it, it was still his, and nothing Henry did would ever change that. Evelyn may have cared for him, perhaps, in some way, even loved him, but in the end her thoughts always wandered back to Victor. He was the one she wanted. Over everyone else, he was the one she wanted. Henry couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t bear the thought of Victor, who already had everything, taking Evelyn away from him.

So he kissed her. He saw Evelyn walking down the street, followed her to the library, waited for her to come out, and he pushed her against the wall and kissed her. He kissed her before Victor Criss could. He kissed her to remove all traces of him from her heart.

And it worked. For the first time in years, Evelyn’s eyes were focused on him and only him. They sparkled beautifully, glowing with the same emotion Henry had seen when he first met her. To think, it only took one little kiss to make that flame spark up again. Why if Henry had known that, he would have kissed her a long time ago.

(So why did he tell her it didn’t mean anything? Was it out of guilt, or was it… something else?)

You’re gonna hate me if you ever find out the truth, Ev. I know you love me now, but one day you’re gonna hate me. I’m not the one you’re supposed to be with, yet here you are… crying over me, caring for me, blaming yourself for kissing me even though you desperately wanna do it again. It’s my fault you feel this way, Ev. Your heart’s too easily swayed and I really never should have kissed you.

But, as his lying whore of a mother would say, that was a problem for another day, wasn’t it? Today, Evelyn loved him; today, she was willing to do anything for him; and Henry needed her. Selfishly, savagely, he needed her.

He grabbed her face and kissed her again. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet. It was hard, rough, and demanding. You’re mine, his kiss said. Don’t even try to refuse me.

Henry could taste the surprise on her lips. “Wait,” she said, and gently pushed him away. “This isn’t right, Henry. You’re not right.”

No, this wasn’t right and no, Henry wasn’t thinking clearly—in fact, he wasn’t thinking at all. He was just feeling, feeling everything all at once, and the pressure was starting to crush him. He hated his mom. He missed his mom. He loved Evelyn. He needed Evelyn. He didn’t want her to leave.

He kissed her again, softer this time, the way he knew she wanted to be kissed, the way Victor probably would have kissed her if he had ever been given the chance. Evelyn responded immediately, all her previous hesitance melting away. This wasn’t right; Henry wasn’t right; but she kissed him, touched him, held him, undressed him, and let him push her down onto the bed.

You really need to guard your heart better, Ev. You make it too easy for guys like me.

He took off her clothes and kissed her skin. Everywhere his lips touched was warm and soft. Evelyn watched him wordlessly, her body flushed with heat, eyes glazed with affection and desire, reflecting him, only him. It didn’t matter who she was meant to be with, who she wanted to be with. Henry had kissed her, he’d claimed her, and now she was gonna stay with him whether she liked it or not.

Forget about all those postcards on your wall, Evelyn, because you’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you. Even if I have to pin you down, even if I have to tie you up, you’re staying right here with me. But it won’t be all bad, Evelyn. It wasn’t all bad with my dad, either. Some days were nice, perfect. Some days I could really feel how much he loved my mom. He never meant to hurt her, Evelyn, and I won’t mean to hurt you, either. But I will. I know I will. I’m gonna hit you like he did, and you’ll forgive me like she did, and you’ll dab concealer under your eye and smile and pretend that everything’s fine. You’ll lie because you love me, and one day you’ll hate me, but that’s a problem for another day, and right now I just don’t wanna be alone!

A tear rolled down Henry’s face, catching him by surprise, and landed on Evelyn’s skin. In its surface, Henry saw his entire future laid out in front of him.

You’re gonna leave me. No matter what I do, you’re always gonna end up leaving me… just like she did.

(Be a good boy and wait, okay? Mommy will be back soon.)

This thought pierced his heart like a syringe filled with ice-cold water. Terror shot through him, chilling him to the bone and making his whole body lock up with fear. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see. Darkness had closed in and ringed his vision like a tunnel. At the end of it, he saw a scaly, monstrous hand stretching toward him, reaching for him, trying to take what was his. No! Henry recoiled from it with a hysterical shriek. The room spun and he hit the floor hard, saw his and Evelyn’s clothes scattered all around him: wrinkled, ruined, just like her floral quilt. What’s going on? Henry thought deliriously, his inner voice sounding much too young to be his own. The room was different. Everything was different. Evelyn was sitting up now, clutching the blankets to her chest, her bra strap hanging off her bare shoulder. Her worried lips mouthed, “What’s wrong, Henry?” but he could barely hear her over his pounding heart. Something was wrong. Something had changed. That happy, peaceful, safe feeling wasn’t there anymore. Now the room felt cold, dark, and dangerous. Henry sat in the middle of it, trembling, naked and afraid. “What are you trying to do to me?” he snapped, furious now, his tone sharp and accusing. Evelyn’s face paled with bewildered fright. “What? I’m not…” but Henry refused to hear any more. He clawed his clothes off the floor and yanked them on while stumbling out. The door slammed behind him. A second later it whipped open and Evelyn came tumbling down the stairs after him. Her cheeks were streaked with hot, guilty tears. Her voice kept cracking as she called out to him, begging him to stop, begging him to calm down, please, Henry, please, just tell me what’s wrong! He felt her hand on his arm and he ripped it away.

“MAYBE I’M JUST NOT INTERESTED, EVELYN—”

(?WHY?)

“—EVER THINK OF THAT?”

(??WHY DID I SAY THAT??)

The force of memory left Henry clutching his head in agony. This one didn’t leave as easily as the ones before it. It dug its claws in deep and refused to let go, taunting him, tormenting him, driving him crazy. All the while, his cruel words echoed down the long corridor in his mind, down and back, down and back, over and over. Why did he say that to her? Why? Why?! He had pulled it out of thin air and screamed it right in her face.

She’s not worth it. I said that. I did.

It was all bullshit, of course. Evelyn should have sensed that immediately and slapped him for saying such a horrible thing. Called him a liar, called him a coward, because that’s exactly what he was. But Evelyn didn’t do anything. She just stood there and swallowed his rage, every last venomous drop, and let it sink deep into her heart. Her final expression was hollow and self-hating. It haunted Henry all summer.

He hadn’t meant to say that. She had to know he had never meant to say that. Henry was just feeling overwhelmed and scared and he wanted her to go away.

… but she wouldn’t really go away, right?

… right?

There was no answer, only the wind.

Henry felt unwelcome as he walked down Summer Street, his steps heavy, fists disarmed and hanging limp at his sides.

This feeling of unwelcomeness was not entirely new to him. This was one of those nice middle-class neighborhoods, after all—quiet, peaceful, safe—where everyone’s lawns were green and well-groomed, where nosy old biddies sipped iced tea and lemonade and gossiped together on their front porches. Did you see what Susan Stoutman was wearing to church last Sunday? Her husband bought her a brand new set of gold earrings—real gold, too. Seems to me like he’s apologizing for something, but you didn’t hear that from me. And did you see their new car? Where’d they get that kinda money? It was one of those neighborhoods where middle-aged men listened to the radio while they drank beer and tinkered away in their garages, where young couples jogged together every morning and walked their dogs every night, where small children rode their tricycles right in the middle of the street without any fear of getting hit by a speeding car. There was no speeding in this neighborhood, of course. Everyone drove a modest twenty-five. There was no noise past ten o’clock. No arguments. No crime (except for what happened to that sweet little Dursey girl, of course; that had been a real tragedy). In this neighborhood, people looked out for one another. They probably got together for backyard barbecues in the summer and shoveled each other’s driveways in the winter. Need some sugar? Just ask your neighbor! It was enough to make you sick, honestly…

No, Henry Bowers didn't belong here, with his ripped jeans and bruised knuckles, his occasional black eye (a kid named Charlie Hewitt had sucker-punched him on the playground once; Henry got him back real good and it never happened again). Everyone probably assumed he was there to vandalize property or to steal something.

"Eh relax, you old bitch," he grumbled to the woman who was glaring at him from her front porch. "Nobody's interested in your dusty-ass shit."

(He hoped she wouldn't call the cops, though. Henry didn’t want his presence here getting back to his old man. No, he didn’t want that at all.)

On an ordinary day, Henry might have barked at her like a rabid dog, cursed at her, threatened her, doubled back after dark and thrown a rock through one of her windows, but today he just ducked his head and carried on. He was too tired for any of that. His head hurt and his body ached miserably. He just wanted to see Evelyn.

A bit further up the road, a perky real estate agent was leading a pair of prospective buyers (Roger and Delores Peterson, newlyweds and expecting parents, from Lewiston) into the Dursey house. “Now this house,” she said on her way in, “is a three-bed, two-and-a-half-bath colonial. Perfect for a growing family. It’s a real bargain for the price. The current owners are very motivated to sell.”

Oh yes, Henry thought morbidly, I bet finding your kid butchered is one helluva motivator.

Honestly, he was glad to see them go. Henry had no love for Gary Dursey, who had once dragged out his lawn chair and parked it on the edge of his driveway when he saw Henry smoking on the Toziers’ front porch. A bold move coming from a guy who was still in his underwear at four-thirty in the afternoon (Gary was between jobs back then, and very insecure about it). He spied Henry from his living room window, came outside, and threatened to call the cops if he didn’t leave. Henry, while lighting up another cigarette, told the guy to mind his own business. He was waiting for Evelyn. She was expecting him.

“We’ll see if she’s expecting you,” Gary Dursey said, and then he went to fetch his chair. “Oh yeah, we’ll see real soon, pal. I’ve known Evelyn since she was a baby. She would never associate with a little punk like you.”

Little punk, Henry thought, scoffing. I’ll show you a little punk. Maybe I should take the air out of your tires before I leave. How does that sound, you nosy prick?

Evelyn showed up a while later—late—exhausted from a long day of school and after-school tutoring. Henry had, once again, forgotten what day it was, but since when was it his job to keep track of her schedule?

Gary Dursey called her over, pointed at Henry, and said, “Do you know this kid, Evie?”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Evelyn replied, acting annoyed while secretly fighting back a smile. “He’s a classmate of mine, Mr. Dursey. We’re working on an assignment together.”

“I see,” Gary said reluctantly. “Well, with him as your partner, I’m afraid you’ll be stuck doing most of the work.”

Evelyn offered a gentle laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Anyway thanks, Mr. Dursey. Enjoy the rest of your day.” She bid him farewell, dashed across the street, walked up to Henry, and said with a playful twinkle in her eye, “You really like making my life difficult, don’t you?”

“Well it’s your fault for making me wait so long.”

“Oh, don’t be a brat. I got here as soon as I could. Now are you coming or not?”

She hurried past him and the memory rippled away before Henry could catch up to her. Now he sat on the porch, alone, staring at the empty Dursey house with a strange sense of loss and loneliness. They were gone. All of them were gone. Gary, his wife, their two school-aged children, and…

the youngest one, Gracie, yeah she was gone, too.

Henry often saw her playing outside on the front lawn, sometimes with her siblings but usually alone. Eventually, she would skip over with one of her toys, show it to him, talk his ear off about it, and then run off again. Sometimes she stayed a bit longer, though. Henry didn’t mind when she did that.

My dad says smoking's bad for you. He says you're gonna get cancer and die.

Well, kid, your dad's an asshole.

You said a bad word.

Yes, I did.

Gracie Dursey, yeah that kid was a regular motormouth, not so unlike Evelyn was when she was that age.

You like Evie a lot, huh?

What makes you think that?

‘Cause you're always here. You’re here a lot. Like, a lot a lot. You look lonely out here by yourself. I thought you could use some company, even though you're a stranger. My mom says I'm not uppose to talk to strangers, but you can't be bad if Evie likes you. She likes you a lot. Her face gets really red when she talks about you. She thinks you should stop smoking, too. She doesn't want you to die.

Gracie’s mother had warned her not to talk to strangers, but she did anyway, didn’t she? Maybe she just couldn’t help herself.

Gracie went missing in late November—a few days after Thanksgiving, actually. Three days later, a group of kids found her body in the trainyard… what was left of her body, anyway. It took responders several days to find and bag all of the remains. Oscar Bowers was the first officer to arrive at the scene. His partner got sick when he saw the little girl’s foot, tucked neatly inside a baby pink sneaker, lying all by itself on the tracks. The shoelaces were clumsily tied with a bunny ear knot. Gracie was still learning to tie them herself.

Evelyn took Gracie's death really hard. After the funeral, she called Henry’s house in the middle of the night, deeply distraught and desperate to see him. Henry had never heard her sound so vulnerable. She said she couldn’t stand looking at that house anymore. She needed to get away. Please. It was the “please” that got him moving. Henry hung up the phone and rushed out to meet her at almost two in the morning. They sat on their rock, which by then was too small for both of them to sit on comfortably, and Evelyn wept ceaselessly into the night. She said it was her fault that Gracie died. If she had just taken her rollerskating, none of this would have happened. Henry, not knowing what to do, just sat there listening to her. I never tried to comfort her.

Evelyn, of course, had let him off the hook for that. She said his presence alone was comforting enough. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Henry needed to do better. From now on, he swore, he would do better.

His heart jumped when he saw Maggie Tozier's minivan make the turn onto Summer Street. Evelyn was coming. Finally, she was coming. Anxiety and fear churned in his stomach now. Was she okay? Would they be okay? Henry wanted to believe that everything would be fine, that Evelyn would eventually forgive him like she always did, but he couldn't ignore the dread that gnawed at him. The ground didn't feel stable anymore. He felt like a trap door was about to open up underneath him and send him tumbling straight into darkness. What if she refused to listen to him? What if she told him to go away and never speak to her again? What if—?

The van pulled into the driveway and stopped. Henry’s breath stopped with it. He could see Evelyn’s silhouette in the passenger seat, shrunken and frail.

Did he hurt her? Henry thought suddenly. I’ll kill him if he did!

Her head was turned toward her mother’s larger silhouette. They were talking, probably about him, and Maggie was stroking Evelyn’s face. Henry could imagine what they were saying: Do you want me to tell him to leave, sweetie? Just say the word and I will. He hoped Maggie wouldn’t send him away. That might have killed him.

The door swung open. Maggie Tozier climbed out and stepped into the early evening sun. As soon as Henry saw her, a dizzying sense of nostalgia swept over him. He suddenly remembered sitting up high on the examination table, hearing paper rustle and crinkle underneath him. He was feeling nervous and a little scared. His mother looked scared, too. She didn’t like this place. Henry didn’t like it either. They were waiting in the hospital exam room, a room that stank of hand soap and disinfectant, where little boys got poked and probed and helpless young mothers got pecked savagely with questions. How’s your son eating? How’s he sleeping? Is he still wetting the bed at night? Say, where did he get all those bruises?

Baby blue walls were stenciled with flowers, butterflies, and Winnie-the-Pooh characters. In the far corner, a small table was cluttered with toys, so many toys. Henry wanted to play with them.

You can play with them once we’re done, okay?

A nurse was standing in front of him. She had a stethoscope around her neck and a smile on her face. When Henry glared at her, she glared right back. Then she started to laugh.

Wow, how scary! He’s got that glare down pat, doesn’t he? My, my… Did I offend you? Ah, right… you’re probably too old for baby toys, huh? My mistake.

Her smile was friendly and full of good humor.

I’m gonna give you your shot now, okay? You’re gonna feel a tiny pinch, but I think a tough guy like you can handle it… Ready? You sure? Here we go!

Her eyes were a warm, golden brown.

You know I’ve got a little girl about your age. Her name’s Evelyn. If you haven’t seen her, you’ve probably heard her. She’s a bit of a chatterbox.

Now they were cold with contempt, and Henry felt himself cower beneath them.

That had been ten years ago, ten long years, but Henry remembered it like it was yesterday. Did Maggie remember him, too? Did she remember how scared he had been? How he’d glared at her when she tried to make him laugh?

(Oh? What’s this I see? Is that a tiny smile hiding in there?)

Did she remember how he’d taken his booster shot without shedding a single tear? How she’d put a Band-Aid on his arm, gave him a sweet, and praised him for being such a brave little boy before sending him off to play with all the toys?

(Have at ‘em, tough guy. Your mom and I are gonna chat for a bit.)

Did Maggie remember any of that? Did she? Did she—?

Henry flinched as her shadow fell on him, black and heavy with hate. It passed by without a sound.

You were right, he wanted to tell her. I did hear Evelyn before I saw her. I heard her, saw her, and I fell in love with her right away. That probably wasn’t what you wanted, though.

Henry turned his attention back to the van and waited. Behind him, Maggie Tozier took out her house keys and unlocked the front door. Before going inside, she stole one last glance at Henry, remembering the boy he used to be, seeing the man he had become, and her heart twinged with unexpected guilt.

Goddammit, Lynn, she thought, why couldn't you have taken him with you?

She went inside and closed the door.

Across the street in the Dursey house, Roger Peterson felt like he had finally caught a break.

He moseyed down the stairs with a smile on his face, his mind delightfully elsewhere and quickly drifting further away. Six months from now, he would be walking down these stairs in his bedrobe and slippers. Roger had never been a morning person, but he would become one in this house. Yes, he was sure he would. He would rise with the morning sun, brew a fresh pot of coffee in his kitchen, his kitchen, and enjoy a cup while standing outside on the front porch—a real porch made of wood, not some narrow slab of piss-stained concrete (how anyone could consider that a porch Roger would never know). He would sip his coffee, breathe in the fresh smell of dewy morning grass, and wave to all his neighbors as they too began their day. Hey, Don, lovely morning, isn't it? Didja happen to catch the Red Sox game last night? Hoy boy was that a knucklebiter… Hey, Cliff, say hi to the missus for me, will ya? Oh yeah, Delores is doing fine, just fine. She really loves it here. We both do. His lawn, his porch, his home. Yeah, that sounded pretty darn swell, didn’t it?

He found his wife standing beneath the arch of the living room window, her expression dazed and distant, arms wrapped protectively over their unborn child. She had, it occurred to Roger now, been doing that ever since she entered the house, and for seemingly no reason at all. Concerning, but not exactly unusual. Pregnancy had a strange effect on Delores. It made her very… sensitive, for lack of a better word, but then again Delores had always been a little sensitive.

Back when they were kids goofing off at a swanky Colorado hotel called the Overlook (Delores worked as a maid there and Roger was a humble bellboy), Delores demonstrated a special intuition regarding their manager’s whereabouts. Somehow, she always knew the perfect time to peel off for a smoke break, the perfect time to play the diligent worker, the perfect time to grab Roger’s hand and sneak into one of the guest rooms for a little romp in the sheets. They never got caught, not once. To Stuart Ullman, they were both exemplary employees… until they weren’t, of course, but that was a separate matter.

Delores cheekily called it her women’s intuition, but Roger suspected it was more than that, much more. Whatever it was, it grew tenfold during the early stages of her pregnancy, for better or for worse. In her first trimester, they won $50,000 from a handful of lottery scratchers, but Roger would have gladly given all that money back if it meant his wife could get a decent night’s sleep. For the first three months, Delores suffered from these terribly vivid nightmares that left her damn near catatonic, eyelids fluttering, hands clenching, bleeding, murmuring senselessly about RVs at a campground… and a strange woman wearing a hat. Roger, whose unborn son would grow up, thrive remarkably, and vanish during a school camping trip in 2001, eased his wife’s fears with humor, the only way he knew how. Well, good thing we’re not the outdoorsy types, huh, kiddo?

Even so, Roger had thought, a change of scenery would do them both a lot of good.

He slipped his arm around his wife’s shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "This place sure is something, isn't it?"

"Yes," Delores said colorlessly, "something."

She was staring out the window and watching

(a little girl riding around on a pink tricycle, round and round)

all the beautiful flowers sway gently in the breeze. It was such a lovely little garden. She wasn’t sure if she would know how to properly maintain it. Delores had a black thumb when it came to plants. Everything she touched ended up

(in pieces on the train tracks)

(a baby pink sneaker splattered with blood)

dead.

(the little girl was dead!)

Delores pressed her hand to her mouth, holding in a scream. For just a moment her mind had filled with an image so real it seemed to be happening in front of her. A little girl riding her tricycle. A shadow looming over her. Talking to her. Smiling at her. Taking her hand and leading her away… into the woods, onto the train tracks. Dead. Cold. Oh, Delores felt so horribly cold all of a sudden, and her unborn child was kicking and squirming inside her. Distress. Fear. A siren blaring in alarm. It was too much, way too much. She wrenched away from the window, breathless and pale, and buried her face into her husband’s chest.

“Feeling sick again?”

“Yes, very.” She stepped back and steadied herself, taking slow, deep breaths until the image finally cleared from her mind. “We can’t live here, Roger.”

“No?”

“No.”

Delores said nothing else. She didn’t need to. By now, Roger knew better than to question his wife’s twinkling intuition.

Twelve years ago, she had gotten herself fired from the Overlook for frightening half the staff and a few of the guests. She had gone into Room 217 to change the towels and came out two minutes later, sobbing and shrieking in terror. Mrs. Massey... in the bathtub! I saw her, I saw her! She was grinning at me! Mrs. Massey was one of the Overlook's most frequent guests. She had checked out the day before, her body discreetly taken away and loaded onto a plane headed for New York. Delores couldn’t have seen her, not in the tub, not anywhere in the hotel, but she swore on her life that she had. You believe me, don’t you, Roger? Word quickly got around to Ullman and he fired Delores right on the spot. A hysterical woman crying about ghosts was hardly a good look for his esteemed hotel. He handed Delores her walking papers and sent her home in a yellow cab. Roger, without an ounce of hesitation, climbed in after her.

If you go, I go.

That probably sounded incredibly romantic, and Roger suspected that was partly why she so readily agreed to marry him, but romance had nothing to do with it. Roger didn’t quit because he loved her (back then, their relationship had been a fun workplace fling, nothing more). He quit because he trusted her. And if Delores thought there was something wrong with the Overlook, then Roger didn’t need to hear anything else. So he chucked his nametag out the window and flipped his furious manager the bird. So long, Ullman, so long. It was just a summer job, anyway. They were engaged and living in Maine at the time of the Overlook’s destruction. When Roger read the newspaper headline, he couldn’t help but feel like he cheated death a little bit. That's why he trusted her now.

"Well, that's too bad," Roger said, and allowed himself one last look around. In his mind, he already had all his furniture picked out. Hopefully it would fit into the next place just as well.

He called the real estate agent over.

“Well?” she said. “Thoughts?”

“I think we’re gonna keep looking,” he told her. “Thanks anyway, though. It’s a real nice house.”

He put it behind him, nevertheless, and carefully helped his wife into the car. As Roger slid into the driver’s side, his mind suddenly flashed back to that yellow cab (If you go, I go), her frightened face, the long and silent ride home. Thinking of this, he reached across the seat and found his wife’s hand, just as he had before.

“Who was it this time?” he asked. “Another kid?”

“Yes… a little girl.”

“Oh shit,” Roger said. Maybe that house wasn't so great, after all. Maybe Derry wasn't so great, after all. “That’s a lot of dead kids for one town, isn’t it? Must be something in the water or something.” He went to put the key into the ignition. Delores stopped him with her hand.

“What made you say that just now?”

“Say what?”

“There must be something in the water. Why did you say that?”

“Umm, because it’s a common expression? Why, do you think there’s something wrong with the water here?”

“No, nothing like that, it’s just…” Delores withdrew her hand and settled back into her seat. “There’s a weird smell hanging around here—a rotten, sludgy smell. The whole town stinks of it. It reminds me of a sewer or something. You really don’t smell anything?”

“Me? No…” but Roger took another quick whiff just to be sure. “No, I don’t smell a thing.”

“Well, it’s making me sick. Can we go home now, please?”

“You don’t wanna stop somewhere for dinner?”

“No… No, I don't wanna stay in this town for another minute.”

Because it was more than a bad smell. A bad smell she could dismiss as another annoying pregnancy symptom, just like her sudden revulsion to meat. But it wasn't just the smell. There was something else smothering the air in Derry—this overwhelming feeling of sadness and loss, of guilt and grief, hurt and hate, and death, so much death. Poisonings. Stabbings. Shootings. Lynchings. Explosions. Children being starved, being beaten, being smothered in their cribs. It was all here, in the air, in the water, scorched into the soil like a brand. How could anyone stand to live in such a place?

But people did live here. Delores could hardly believe it. Somehow the citizens of Derry lived, thrived, and happily went about their day, unaware of the poison they were breathing, unaware of the danger that lurked below, far below. Yes, Delores could feel that, too. The source of the smell. The source of all the town’s suffering and death. Down in the darkness under Derry was a great unspeakable terror, nameless, shapeless. It had been sleeping undisturbed for years, but now it was awake and ready to…

(feed)

A tremor of panic rolled through her. Delores fastened her seat belt and urged her husband to start the car. “Take us home, Roger. Now. Please.” If we don't leave now, we may never leave… and this is no place for children.

Yet there were children, many children. Across the street, a boy and a girl were sitting on opposite sides of the driveway. Teenagers wrapped up in their silly teenage problems. The boy was sitting on the bottom step of the porch, his eyes focused, restless, his face tight with worry. The girl was curled up in the front seat of her mother’s minivan, thinking

(You have to do it, Evie)

that she might have to hurt someone she cared about, someone she loved.

Delores’s heart went out to her. Poor girl, she thought as they pulled away. She’ll soon realize that none of this matters.

_______________

PREV // CURRENT

#bowers gang #henry bowers #patrick hockstetter #victor criss #belch huggins #it stephen king #it movie #it 2017 #it fanfiction #henry bowers fanfiction #patrick hockstetter fanfiction #paper men #ambrossart

12 notes · View notes