Chapter 2

Everything dies, baby, that's a fact. but maybe everything that dies someday comes back.

-Bruce Springsteen

The voice had always been a part of Deborah.

As long as she could remember, she could hear it. Sometimes it came when she was all alone in a quiet room, other times it spoke to her from some place just over her shoulder in a room full of people.

"You don't belong here," it would tell her. "You never should have been born. Get out! Leave! Scram!"

She supposed that Donna must've heard it too. They were twins, after all, identical twins. So if Deborah could hear it, she didn't see any reason why Donna wouldn't.

"Everybody hears that, Debs," Donna said the first time she brought it up, rolling her eyes. "Negative self-talk, remember?"

Deborah had shaken her head, insisting it was different, and Donna had folded her arms, called her crazy.

If she'd known what to look for, she'd have seen the fear, the uncertainty in Donna's eyes. But she hadn't, and so, for the first time since her conception, Deborah Amberson had felt totally alone.

The voice had seen this as a triumph. "See!" it had jeered that night as Deborah laid in bed with her pillow over her head, the only other sound besides the whirring fan her sister's soft snoring not three feet away. "Not even your sister wants you here, Debbie! Not even your own twin sister! You don't belong here and you never have!"

That night, she'd jammed the pillow harder, closed her eyes tight, and willed it to go away. But it didn't. It never did-she suspected it never would.

And so, on the night that Eden Hanscom met her grisly end in a backyard nearly 800 miles away, Deborah Amberson packed a bag, climbed out her window, and left Jodie, Texas forever.

August 1989

Lincoln, Nebraska

The old sense had stirred up long before Beverly had arrived at Karen's house, shortly after 2:30 in the afternoon.

It popped up sometimes, even now. A stirring on the back of her neck, the tightening in her belly, a feeling of wrong that didn't quite have a name, something deeper than anxiety, more pervasive than dread, an ancient and primordial feeling as old as the thing that had given it to her.

Ben said he felt it too, and he was sure that if she called up Mike or Bill or Richie they'd say the same thing. She supposed he was right. If they had fought the thing maybe 20 years later, the word for it would have been PTSD, but even then, Beverly would have always supposed that it was even bigger than that. How do you name something when you cannot possibly explain its origins?

She pushed it down, most of the time. Could ignore it. Count her blessings, her mother used to say, and that was what she did. Counted her beautiful life, her handsome husband, the bond they shared, their beautiful child, her successful business and Ben's, the life that they'd built for themselves, counted every last sweet blessing until they were all that was left. Some days-like today-it was a little bit harder. A little bit more pervasive, a little bit more niggling, as if the dust of It still covered every square inch of the planet that Beverly inhabited.

It had grown so strong by the time she rounded the corner of Smith Street that she'd begun to feel nauseous. She longed for Ben, then, for his large, reassuring hand on her back, for Eden's soft giggle, but even recalling those things felt like they were no use at all, the bile of the feeling rising up in her throat, sitting there in her mouth, threatening to spill out.

The feeling was so strong that the sight of the police car was almost, hysterically, expected. "Oh, there's a police car!" she thought, almost giddy with anxiety, "I'm gonna walk up there and find Eden dead, stabbed to death by that untrustworthy cunt of a babysitter!" It wasn't a nice thing to think, and Beverly knew that, made a mental note to be extra nice to Karen when she went in, reasoning with herself that the police car was probably for Karen's neighbor's delinquent son-he was always doing something or another that was getting him in trouble, be it smoking behind the school or throwing cherry bombs at elementary school kids. Stupid stuff, juvenile delinquent stuff. "Henry Bowers stuff," her brain thought, and once again, she had to swallow the vomit back.

She could have gone on thinking that-deluding herself, really, but nonetheless-until she actually walked into the house and was greeted by Ben's stony face, Karen's wailing, and the sympathetic eyes of Officers Dollanger and Chrismuth, almost, if it weren't for spotting Ben's car out of the corner of her eye, parked across the street.

The car was unmistakeably Ben's-there was the Hanscom & Partners parking pass on the rear view mirror, the top of Eden's car seat poking out from behind the passenger's seat, the hip-swaying Elvis doll shellacked to the dashboard ("Are you really going to put such an ugly thing on the dashboard of such a nice car?" she'd giggled when he did it. It was a brand new BMW sedan. "It makes Edie laugh," was his explanation, and Beverly could find no fault in that)-and even if somehow it had been stripped of all these features, she'd still have known, somehow.

On leaden legs, she got out of her own car, walking stiffly up the path to the house as if being guided by some invisible force, dimly, numbly aware that something was very, very wrong.

Ben had been the first one out of the house. He'd been sitting with his back to the picture window in the living room and had heard her pull up, jumping to his feet. "My wife," he'd explained, wanting-no, needing-to get to her first. He crossed the lawn and embraced her, holding her as tightly against him as he had that day so many years ago in the Barrens, when Henry and Belch had nearly ended them both. That was it-that memory, worn on the edges like a well-loved page in a scrapbook, but still sharp and clear-was the tipping point, the cue her body had been looking for-and, without warning for anybody, she made an awful choking noise before vomiting suddenly, forcefully, all over Ben, just in time for Officers Dollanger and Chrismuth to come out of the house.

She drew back, eyes wide, hand clapped over her mouth. Ben stumbled backward, shocked, and they both stood in silence for a few seconds, looking at each other.

And then, the strangest thing happened: Beverly Hanscom began to laugh. She fell forward, hands on her knees, laughing so hard that her whole body shook. It was a kind of laughter that bewildered even her, a full body laugh that made her sides hurt and her eyes water. A contagious one, too, because soon Ben was laughing, and then they were sitting together on the lawn of Karen Millington's house at 8601 Smith Street, Ben still covered in Beverly's sick, embracing each other and laughing until the shock faded away, and, just as suddenly, she began to weep. Ben pulled her closer, rubbed her back, kissed her forehead.

"Edie died," he said softly. Saying the words made it more real somehow, and now he was crying, too.

"I know." Beverly's voice was muffled. "I know, I know, I know."

Officer Dollanger, bewildered by the whole scene, had taken a step forward, intending to speak to them both, but Chrismuth put a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. "Let it be, Marty." He'd seen, God forbid, enough homicides of children to know that when the parents weren't involved, sometimes they needed a little extra time. He'd never seen a scene quite like this one, but he'd seen enough to know that anything goes, really.

Finally, when the Hanscoms had stopped weeping (and Mr Hanscom had divested himself of his dirty shirt), Don nodded, and Martin moved forward, solemnly, speaking to Beverly in a low tone. Don stood off to the side, observing the way that Ben steadied Beverly with a hand on his back, the way she shrunk into him, holding onto him for dear life. It struck him, suddenly, from somewhere he couldn't quite place that this was not the first time the Hanscoms had faced a tragedy together.

When Martin had finished talking to them, Don led them all back into the house. Eden's body had been taken away by then, but the crime scene team was still in the backyard, taking pictures, searching for any evidence they could find-and there was precious little.

In the living room, Don sat opposite the stony-faced Hanscoms and explained that every avenue would be explored, and that if they needed anything, he and Martin were just a phone call away. He asked them if there was anything he could do for them right then. When they shook their heads, he handed them his card, gave Ben a firm handshake, and encouraged them to go home and rest while the police handled the rest. \

It wasn't until after officers Chrismuth and Dollanger had left that Karen finally spoke, addressing Beverly and Ben for the first time. "I didn't have anything to do with this, I swear," she said, voice pleading. "I loved Eden, I'd never have done anything to hurt her. She was only alone for a minute, I-"

Beverly leaned her head on Ben's shoulder, suddenly feeling very, very tired. "I know," she said softly. "There was nothing you could've done." And then she got to her feet, Ben following behind her, both of them exchanging a private glance. "We have to go, Karen. I'm sorry this happened here." And then they left, leaving Karen to wonder what, exactly, the Hanscoms knew that she didn't.

August 1989

Derry, Maine

This time, it was Mike who was surprised by the phone call.

If he'd had seen the news, he perhaps would have had some flicker of precognition, but he had not. It had been a particularly nice summer in Derry, warm and sunny, and he'd spent most of his time outdoors. And so, when the phone rang he picked it up with a pleasant tone and absolutely no idea of what was to come.

"It's back," the voice on the other end told him flatly. "It killed Eden."

It took him several long moments to realize what was happening, to place the voice in the fog of his memories. "Ben?" he asked, bewildered.

"Ben," the voice on the other end agreed. "Mike, it's back."

"What's back? What happened? Slow down." Even though Ben was talking perfectly slowly.

"It," Ben repeated, and suddenly, Mike understood. "It killed Eden, Mike."

"Eden-Eden? Your daughter, Eden?" The pieces were falling into place now, and Mike felt his stomach sinking.

There was a beat of silence. "Yeah," he said, finally, and then, "we need you, Mike. You and Richie and Bill...we need you all."

"I-" Mike sighed, suddenly longing for a drink. "Yeah. We'll come. We'll come." The words surprised even him, but they'd come so naturally he knew he was powerless against them, that ancient life force drawing them back together, the way they were supposed to be.

"You will?" for the first time, an edge of emotion in Ben's voice. Relief, yes, but a deep sorrow, too.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Of course."

Another pause on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry," Ben's voice said finally.

"Don't be," Mike reassured him. "Don't be. We're coming."

As soon as he hung up, he sat down heavily at his table, staring into space for a long moment. The intervening four years had been quiet. Normal. Mike himself had begun to forget, what with the evilness sucked out of Derry. But now, suddenly, he remembered. Remembered it all. It seemed impossible; unfathomable. Like some kind of cruel joke. A prank. But Ben's voice had not sounded like it was a prank, and so, gathering his resolve, Mike Hanlon picked up the phone.

He called Bill first. He lived not far out of town, on a sprawling acreage. They saw each other once in awhile, had companionable dinners the way old friends did, but neither of them spoke of It, or their time with the Losers. Mike was certain that, like his own, Bill's memories had begun to fade. When he called, Bill sounded downright thrilled to hear from him, voice warm when Mike introduced himself. "Mike! Long time, how are you, my friend?"

Mike sighed, letting a heavy silence for the line for a moment before he spoke. "Ben and Beverly's little girl died today," he said, finally.

"Ben and-" through the line, Mike could practically see the lightbulb over Bill's head switching on. "Oh. Oh my God."

"...yeah. They asked me to call you."

"That's awful. Is there a funeral? We should go, right? We'll go."

Mike hesitated. "They...they think It did it, Bill."

"They think wha-oh. Oh my God."

"I know. I know."

"We killed It." Mike could hear Bill's breathing, hard and panicked. "We killed It, Mike, how could it-"

Mike sighed. "I don't know, Bill. I don't know. I just know that their daughter is dead and they think It did it. They want us to come."

Silence. Then the heavy, panicked breathing. Then. "I d-d-don't think we can b-beat It a-a-a-again."

The stutter. The fucking stutter. Mike bit his lip. "I don't either, Big Bill," he said. "I don't either. But."

"...we h-h-h-have to g-go."

"We do," Mike agreed. "We have to go." Another long pause, and then he added, "I'll call Richie. I don't think you're in any place to, there, Stuttering Bill."

To his warm and pleasant surprise, Bill laughed at that, and it was just infectious enough to get Mike laughing, too. Maybe Bill was right. Maybe they couldn't beat It again. But maybe that didn't matter. Maybe all that mattered was that they'd be together again.

August 1989

Los Angeles, California

Richie Tozier, hot off his morning show, was half asleep when the phone rang. He had half a mind to ignore it-anyone who knew him would know he was sleeping at this hour, and none of them would ever even bother, knowing he'd just ignore it. But he was waiting on a call from a pretty blonde he'd met a few nights ago and he wasn't about to let that slip away. So, half-asleep, fumbling, he picked up. "Hello?"

"Richie, hi."

Richie allowed himself a moment of disappointment. Not the blonde. He couldn't quite place the voice, really-it was familiar in some nebulous way. "Sorry, who's this?"

"It's Mike Hanlon, Richie."

Suddenly, instantly, Richie was very much awake. "Weel weel weel," he intoned, somewhere between Russian and German, "if it eesent my old friend Mike Hanlon!"

"Beep beep, Richie," Mike said comanionably enough, and Richie smiled, suppressing the feeling of Wrong that was growing in his chest.

"What can I do for ya, Mikey?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light, cheerful.

A few seconds of dead air, and then, "Can you come?"

Richie felt his heart drop out into his stomach. "To Derry?"

"Well." pause. "To Lincoln, actually."

"Lincoln? Nebraska? What the fuck's in Nebraska?"

"Ben and Beverly," Mike said, and recognition finally dawned for Richie. "Their, uh, their baby died, Richie."

At once, Richie felt a pang in his chest, an ache so deep he wasn't sure where it even came from. "That's too bad," he said, finally. "They want us to come for the funeral?"

"Not exactly." Mike's voice was regretful. "They think…"

"No." Richie closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Nope. No way. No fucking way."

"I know," Mike agreed. "I know. But they need us, Richie. We can't let them down. Will you come?"

There was a long, heavy silence. "I never even met the kid, Mike," he said finally. "Hell, I didn't even know we could HAVE…" Suddenly, something clicked in Richie, an awful feeling in his gut, like things all of a sudden made perfect sense. He was quiet, counting down from 10, then 20, then 50 in his head, so quiet that Mike thought the line had gone dead when he spoke up again. "I'll come," he said finally. "Yeah, I'll come."

"Thank you." Mike's voice was warm, and Richie knew he meant it. "I knew I could count on you, Richie."

"Yeah. See you soon, Mike." He slammed the phone down on the receiver, sitting up at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. It was a death mission, he thought. If they had to fight that thing again, none of them would come out alive.

But still. He suddenly had a vision, a memory he'd somehow forgotten for all these years, a memory that hadn't even been dragged back up during his last trip to Derry. It must've only been a few months, maybe a year before his family had left there for good. He and Bev and Mike were the only three left, but Mike went to a different school and that whole school year was just he and Bev. They'd absolutely stuck to each other-and only each other-that whole year. He couldn't even remember if he'd ever spoken so much as a word to another kid that entire school year.

One of them-he suspected it was Bev, because it seemed like the kind of shit she could've talked him into-had decided that they would enter the talent show, learn to do a Lindy Hop and dance as their talent. Neither one of them were very good at it-Bev was better than he was, of course, but still pretty abysmal-but they'd had so much fun. Someone-who?-had eventually taught them to slow the record down while they were learning, and miracle of miracles, it had worked. He was pretty sure they'd even won that year, him and Bev. What song was it that they danced to? In The Mood, that was it, by Glenn Miller. Silly old song.

Humming it to himself, he got off the bed and began to pack.