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affectionatehannibal · 5 years

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the haunting of bill denbrough

prologue

George Denbrough had been dead five long years the night he woke his brother Bill up at one in the morning.

For just a moment, in the split second it took for Bill’s eyes to adjust to the darkness and remind his brain exactly where he was, Bill was thirteen again and Georgie was alive. Around that time of their lives, Georgie had woken Bill up quite often in the middle of the night, searching for somewhere safe from whatever lay waiting for him in the dark and someone brave and strong, someone like Bill, to protect him from it. Bill would make a scene- they were getting too old to sleep together, really- but they both knew sooner or later Bill would roll his eyes a final time and pull aside the covers, making room for Georgie to join him.

The Georgie that stood beside Bill’s bed now looked scared enough for this scenario to be true. His eyes, heavy with fear and wet with tears he seemed to be desperately trying to keep from spilling out, were wide against his pale skin. Bill had seen this look many times; it was the face of a child who has fallen off their bike unexpectedly and, by skinning their knee, suddenly realized that they are not invincible. Overall, Georgie’s expression was a familiar one. But there was something else in his face too, something that woke Bill up completely and increased the tempo of his heartbeat by a couple dozen beats.

Fear.

Not any type of fear- not the kind that used to bring Georgie running to Bill’s room in the middle of the night, nor the kind that prompted Bill to check under his bed every now and then before bed, just to make sure nothing was hiding there. The fear in Georgie’s eyes was the kind that made a heavy nest in your stomach and stayed there forever, or as long as you had left to feel things, anyway. It was powerful enough to break your mind into tiny pieces. Bill had seen this fear reflected on the faces of his friends many times during the summer they’d delved deep into Derry’s sewer system. And he saw it written plainly across Georgie’s face now.

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Georgie’s eyes, wide and troubled, were filled with it. It was as though, if Bill looked really hard, he might see Georgie’s last memories reflected there. His last memories, ones of clowns and sewers and a brother who’d pretended to be sicker than he really was so he wouldn’t have to spend a second longer with his annoying, god-awful little sibling.

Bill shot up, heart pounding painfully in his chest. Reality took hold and screamed dead dead dead your fault into his ears. The real Georgie was miles below where Bill sat now, probably already rotted down to the bone, surrounded by the other dead children of Derry. Georgie was dead. This could be a dream, a hallucination, the aftereffects of the really shitty weed he’d shared with Beverly the day before, but it could not really be Georgie. And yet, some hopeful part of Bill’s heart begged for it to be real, one more chance to hold his brother. He frantically rubbed whatever sleep was left from his eyes, sure Georgie would be gone when he looked again with fresh eyes.

But Georgie stayed put, looking as frightened and pitiful as before.

God, Bill thought. I’d almost forgotten what he looked like.

And it really did look like Georgie, whatever stood beside Bill’s bed in a yellow raincoat and muddied jeans. He looked much smaller, much more fragile, than he had seemed to Bill in life, but, other than that, everything was the same. His eyes were deep and trusting, the same warm brown they’d been the day he’d died. His hair was light and mussed, almost like he’d forgotten to brush it. His mouth was turned downwards, like he was on the verge of crying. Georgie’s face, familiar and sad and trusting, pulled at the walls around Bill’s heart and threatened to overwhelm him with grief and guilt.

“Jesus,” he choked, vision blurry. He hadn’t cried in a very long time, and it was as though his tear ducts were trying to make up for lost time by producing as many tears as they possibly could. They made quick tracks down his cheeks, rolling off his face and onto his sheets. He wiped them away as best he could and reached towards his bedside table, careful not to touch whatever stood there borrowing his brother’s face, and turned on the lamp. He winced once as the lamp flooded the room with warmth and light, and once more when he saw Georgie’s face, no longer half-hidden by darkness. The light shone on the dark circles around his eyes, showed how sunken and bruised his features really were. His skin was a sickly, unhealthy color that reminded Bill of cigarette smoke and crummy gas station bathrooms.

“Oh, jesus,” Bill’s voice was strangled, and he fought to keep sudden, panicked sobs from tearing their way out of his throat. “Georgie?”

The thing that might be Georgie slowly lifted a hand towards Bill in response, palm upwards as though asking for something.

“Holy-” Bill choked. He scrambled backwards, fighting to untangle himself from his sheets and blankets. He fell gracelessly off the bed, hitting his tailbone painfully on the hardwood floor.

Georgie was dead. Long, long dead. Whatever this was wasn’t here to crawl into Bill’s bed and complain that Bill’s feet were too cold, or be shushed by their parents for laughing too loudly so late at night. It was here to hurt, to taunt. To remind Bill of something that was, hopefully, as dead as Georgie.

Bill fumbled in the semi-darkness for the baseball bat he kept under his bed, hands exploring the dusty darkness frantically. After a few long moments he pulled it out and stood quickly, pointing it forcefully in the thing’s direction.

“We-we killed you,” Bill demanded, as though saying it was enough to make it true. It had been so long since he’d seen It in anything other than his nightmares; and now, looking at Georgie, he wondered for a quick moment why they’d been so scared of It all those years ago. Whatever stood by Bill’s bed did not ooze hate and evil and otherness like It did in his dreams. This thing was sad and lonely and afraid, but not evil. Still, what else could it be, if not It? “Y-y-y-y-you’re duh-duh-duh-duh-, we k-k-killed you!”

Georgie blinked slowly in reply.

“You’re s-s-s-supposed to buh-buh-be d-d-dead,” Bill coughed. He wiped away the snot that had started dripping and bubbling from his nose.

He heard his parents stir in the next room over at the same time his phone started ringing. His parents weren’t a problem; they wouldn’t come in to check on him if they woke up, and even if they did they wouldn’t be able to see whatever was standing by his ball. The phone call, on the other hand, managed to pry his attention away from whatever was impersonating his dead brother so perfectly. There were only six people in the world who might call him this late at night, and nothing would keep him from answering.

---

Just a few blocks away, Richie Tozier was busy losing a match of Mario Tennis Aces.

It would have been embarrassing if anyone had been there to see it, but he was, thankfully, very much alone. He sat on the edge of his bed, wearing only a ratty pair of boxers and an extra-large t-shirt he’d found hidden in the back of Ben’s closet. The blue glow emanating from his TV screen was beginning to hurt his eyes; he took a quick swig of Mountain Dew to combat the discomfort.

Nighttime had never been kind to Richie; he blamed his current losing streak on that fact. Along with bad luck in digital tennis matches, nighttime brought sleep, and sleep brought nightmares. Amongst the Losers, nightmares were nothing new. It seemed that they were the price you paid to battle a demonic clown and escape unscathed. Overall, it was much easier to stay awake as late as possible and risk falling asleep in AP Bio for the umpteenth time than revisit his one and only trip through Derry’s sewer system every fucking time he closed his eyes.

He was just getting ready to give his remote control a quick good luck kiss before the next round began when a sudden, rapid banging on his window almost made him soil the only clean pair of boxers he had left.

“Holy shit,” Richie gasped. The contents of his stomach threatened to make a panicked appearance; Richie quickly choked them back down. The source of the noise knocked again, impatiently. Richie sighed, but a slow, easy smile made its way across his face. He leaned across his bed, stretching to open the window. He watched Stanley Uris crawl through it and smiled some more as Stan dusted himself off. “Gimme some warning next time, will ya? I almost shit my pants.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Stan mumbled. His shoulders, tense with something- Richie guessed anxiety- slowly relaxed the longer he stood in Richie’s room. Stan bent down to unit his shoes and take off his socks, placing them neatly against the wall. Richie watched him work in silence. It made his heart do summersaults in his chest to see Stan the way he was now- flushed from the bike ride over, hair tangled by sleep and wind, soft and warm in his flannel pajama pants and cotton t-shirt.

Stan said nothing when he was done, just stood quietly, solemnly considering the boy sitting before him. Richie gave him a moment to get whatever he needed from the silence between them and Stan soaked it up, slowly unclenching his jaw and shaking out the nerves that had settled in his fists.

Eventually, Stan sighed, slow and grateful, and Richie decided it was alright to speak. “What’s crackin’, baby doll?”

Stan grimaced. “Bad dream.”

“Same one?”

“Always the same.”

Richie hummed his displeasure and opened his arms, inviting Stanley to fill the space between them. Stan made his way towards them gratefully, crawling into Richie’s lap and leaning his head against Richie’s chest. Richie ran a hand through Stan’s hair, soft and gentle. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe next time.”

Richie hummed again. Stan always said that, and so far they had never talked about it. “Want some Mountain Dew?”

Stan rolled his eyes, even though Richie couldn’t see his face. “No, thanks. But I’d take something stronger if you had it.”

Richie grinned and gave the top of Stan’s head a quick kiss. “I think I might have somethin’ like that,” he leaned across the bed, careful to keep Stan safely balanced in his lap, to grab his phone. “Let’s get Big Bill over here, while we’re at it.”

“No,” Stan snatched the phone from Richie’s hands and held it close to his chest. Sleep wasn’t something any of them could take lightly, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to steal a single second of it from Bill. “Don’t wake him up.”

“Come on, you know he hates missing out on stuff. He can always sleep once he gets here if he wants to.”

Their eyes locked and Richie grew suddenly seriously; a battle had begun. Stan figured they were too old to keep using staring contests to settle disputes. Richie said they were too old to let sacred traditions die so flippantly. In the end, they usually served Stan’s interests anyway; he could hold a glare with the best of ‘em. A few long moments passed; the air thick with concentration. And then Richie did what he usually did when he knew he couldn’t win- cheated.

Stan furiously blinked Richie’s sudden stream of warm, wet air out of his eyes. “I hate you,” he glared, hiding a grin, and held out the phone.

Richie laughed a happy, victorious laugh and gave Stan another kiss, this one on his forehead. Perhaps his nighttime losing streak was over at last; if this night was going anyway like he thought it was, he was going to get lucky two times over.

Pretty much everything about the three of them was built on luck. Luck, and a whole lot of hard fucking work. There were no guidebooks on how to date two of your best friends at once, no polyamorous trailblazers to show them the way. There was nothing, no one to tell them how to do this wonderful, lovely thing between the three of them. It was messy and hard sometimes, but god if it wasn’t good. All things considered, Richie thought they were doing pretty well for themselves.

He smiled softly and wildly into Stanley’s hair as he dialed Bill’s number.

---

Bill used the bat to keep at least three feet between him and Georgie as he walked slowly to the other side of the bed, towards the bedside table where his phone sat.

He struggled to pick it up, hands shaking, and cursed quietly when he almost hung up accidentally. “Huh-huh-ello?”

“Billy boy!” Richie sang, too excited to notice that Bill’s stutter, which normally took a siesta whenever he was talking to someone he loved, had returned full force. “Get your ass over here; we’re having an impromptu fiesta, just me, you, and-.”

“Ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-Richie.” Bill interrupted. His body filled with relief at the sound of Richie’s voice, so much so that the bat almost slipped out of his hand. Here was someone who could understand, who might be able to help. He held his phone tight against his ear, as if doing so would transport him closer to Richie, away from whatever nightmare he was stuck in now.

Richie said something quick to someone that wasn’t Bill, his voice muffled and far-away. He sounded worried when he turned his attention back to Bill, like it had finally hit him that something wasn’t quite right. “Yeah, Bill, it’s me. What’s wrong?”

“I-I-I,” he stammered, eyes locked on his dead brother. “I-I th-th-th-think Guh-Guh-Georgie i-i-is in m-m-muuhhh-my r-r-room.”

“Fuck, Bill, I can hardly understand a word you’re saying. Did you-did you say something about Georgie?”

Bill flinched, like someone had just made as if to slap him. He hadn’t heard anyone say that name aloud in years. “H-h-h-h-h-h-hhhhh-,” he took a frantic breath, as if that would dislodge the word stuck in his throat. “Fuck, R-Richie, G-g-g-Georgie’s in m-my fucking ruh-uh-room.”

Richie said something else to whoever was in the room with him. They seemed to argue for a short moment which seemed impossibly long to Bill. “Hey, Bill? Don’t move. We’re on our way.”

The line went dead.

---

“Why did you hang up?” Stan spat, trying for the fifteenth time to reach Bill again. “He’s not picking up the phone.”

Despite being walking distance away from Bill’s house, they’d quickly decided to borrow (steal was a better word, as Richie was banned from driving it) Richie’s mother’s car. It whined loudly as Richie forced it faster and faster through the darkened streets toward Bill’s house.

“Chillax, Stanley,” Richie spat back, voice much less poisonous than Stan’s had been, obviously not chillaxing himself. He leaned forward in his seat, knuckles white around the wheel, as if worrying would help them get there faster. “Big Bill knows how to take care of himself. Whatever’s goin’ on, he’ll be alright.”

Stan shot a quick look of incredulous disbelief in Richie’s direction. It was the kind of look he usually saved for those students of Derry High with less common sense than a bucket of dying paint. It screamed: Are you an idiot? Stan himself screamed nothing and simply tried Bill’s number again.

No answer.

Richie urged the speedometer forward.

---

Already a few streets away, Bill Denbrough was busy ignoring the fact that he’d been told to stay put.

He’d made up his mind even before Richie had finished talking that he had to leave, to put as much distance between himself and whatever was in his room as possible. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the look of fear and desperation on Georgie’s face, even if it wasn’t really Georgie he was looking at.

Georgie had followed as he’d stumbled out of the room, and Bill could see him now, standing in solemn silence at the end of their driveway. The absolute silence scared Bill more than anything else. In life, Georgie had been anything but silent. Contemplative, sometimes. But never quiet. Bill almost wished the thing that looked like Georgie would call after him, tell him to stop, something. But Georgie did nothing but watch him and Silver wobble unsteadily for a moment, his frightened gaze following Bill’s form as he made his way down the street.

Bill’s legs and arms knew where they were going before Bill did. Silver took them quickly to their destination, and Bill hopped off the seat before the bike had any time to slow down. He tripped over one of the wheels and fell to the concrete, Silver landing on top of him. He grunted in pain, loose gravel digging its way into the sides of his bare arms.

Bill looked up; he was on eye level with the sewer drain Georgie had spent his last moments crouched before. It did not mock or taunt or scream haha! I killed your brother! like Bill expected it to. It just sat, inconspicuously, like most sewer drains tended to do.

He pushed Silver off of him and scrambled forward. He braced himself against the concrete, poking his head into the sewer as far as the laws of mass and physical space would allow.

---

Stan and Richie were more surprised than they should have been to find Bill’s room empty.

Stan poked around the room methodically, looking for any evidence of what had happened, anything to clue them in on what was going on. Richie swallowed the shitty Sherlock Holmes joke working its way up his throat and fidgeted nervously in the doorway.

Stan picked up Bill’s phone, which sat on the bed, and frowned at it. “I don’t think he’s here.”

“I dunno, have you checked the bathroom? Maybe he’s taking a shit.”

Stan ignored him. “Where would he have gone? His truck’s still in the driveway.”

Bill’s truck was always in the driveway. He only ever used one thing to get where he wanted to go. Stan and Richie remembered this fact simultaneously.

“Oh, shit,” Riche groaned. “I’ll bet he’s halfway across the state by now.”

“No,” Stan shook his head. “He’d want to go somewhere. You said he saw Georgie, yes? What places do you think of when you think about Georgie?”

Simultaneously, Richie and Stan remembered something else. Remembered the last, rainy day George Denbrough had lived to see and the last place he had visited before his death.

They ran back to the car.

The overwhelming smell of rotting trash and stagnant water coming from the sewer drain made Bill want to gag. He turned his head to the side and took a quick whiff of fresh air before turning back to towards the opening.

“Wah-wah-wah-aht d-d-do y-you wuh-uh-want?” Bill shouted. “T-tell me!”

The drain did not grace his hurt and anger with an answer. Somewhere down the street, someone turned on a porch light.

Bill strained to see inside the sewer. He was so focused on making sense of the darkness he found there that he almost didn’t notice the light tug on his sweatshirt. His heart stopped dead in its track and he scrambled upwards to face his death, sure Pennywise himself had crawled from his hiding place to wipe the last of the Denbrough children off the face of the Earth. Instead of finding a killer clown, there stood the thing that looked like Georgie.

Georgie’s face was on fire with panic and fear. Blood streamed from beneath his right jacket-sleeve and down his hand, making soft splattering sounds on the asphalt. Bill’s heart ached, seeing Georgie’s face the way he was sure it must have been before It had killed him. He fell onto his knees and pulled the Georgie thing to him. Georgie felt as real as he looked- solid and firm. He even smelled a little like Georgie had too, like outdoors and the candles their mother liked to light on rainy days. Bill broke then, and sobbed painfully into Georgie’s small, cold chest. Georgie let himself be cried on and did not protest as Bill tightened his grip. He did nothing at all except look down at Bill’s head mournfully and continue drip drip dripping blood.

And this was how Stan and Richie happened upon the final third of their threesome, clutching onto nothing and sobbing endless, heart wrenching sobs.

And so began the haunting of Bill Denbrough.

#pls read on ao3 tumblr didnt add in the italics and shit #stenbrozier #richie tozier #stanley uris #bill denbrough #georgie denbrough #stozier #stenbrough #bichie #mine

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