It (53 page)

Stan had asked them if they wanted to come over to his house and play Monopoly or Parcheesi or something, but none of them wanted to. It was getting late. Ben, sounding tired and depressed, said he was going to go home and see if anybody had returned his library books. He had some hope of this, since the Derry Library insisted on writing in the borrower's street address as well as his name on each book's pocket card. Eddie said he was going to watch
The Rock Show
on TV because Neil Sedaka was going to be on and he wanted to see if Neil Sedaka was a Negro. Stan told Eddie not to be so stupid, Neil Sedaka was white, you could tell he was white just listening to him. Eddie claimed you couldn't tell anything by listening to them; until last year he had been positive Chuck Berry was white, but when
he
was on
Bandstand
he turned out to be a Negro.

“My mother
still
thinks he's white, so that's one good thing,” Eddie said. “If she finds out he's a Negro, she probably won't let me listen to his songs anymore.”

Stan bet Eddie four funnybooks that Neil Sedaka was white, and the two of them set off together for Eddie's house to settle the issue.

And here were Bill and Richie, headed in a direction which would bring them to Bill's house after awhile, neither of them
talking much. Richie found himself thinking about Bill's story of the picture that had turned its head and winked. And in spite of his tiredness, an idea came to him. It was crazy . . . but it also held a certain attraction.

“Billy me boy,” he said. “Let's stop for awhile. Take five. I'm dead.”

“No such l-l-luck,” Bill said, but he stopped, laid Silver carefully down on the edge of the green Theological Seminary lawn, and the two boys sat on the wide stone steps which led up to the rambling red Victorian structure.

“What a d-d-day,” Bill said glumly. There were dark purplish patches under his eyes. His face looked white and used. “You better call your house when w-we get to muh-mine. So your f-folks don't go b-b-bananas.”

“Yeah. You bet. Listen, Bill—”

Richie paused for a moment, thinking about Ben's mummy, Eddie's leper, and whatever Stan had almost told them. For a moment something swam in his own mind, something about that Paul Bunyan statue out by the City Center. But that had only been a
dream,
for God's sake.

He pushed away such irrelevant thoughts and plunged.

“Let's go up to your house, what do you say? Take a look in Georgie's room. I want to see that picture.”

Bill looked at Richie, shocked. He tried to speak but could not; his stress was simply too great. He settled for shaking his head violently.

Richie said, “You heard Eddie's story. And Ben's. Do you believe what they said?”

“I don't nuh-nuh-know. I th-hink they m-m-must have suh-seen suh-homething.”

“Yeah. Me too. All the kids that've been killed around here, I think all of
them
would have had stories to tell, too. The only difference between Ben and Eddie and those other kids is that Ben and Eddie didn't get caught.”

Bill raised his eyebrows but showed no great surprise. Richie had supposed Bill would have taken it that far himself. He couldn't talk so good, but he was no dummy.

“So now dig on this awhile, Big Bill,” Richie said. “A guy could
dress up in a clown suit and kill kids. I don't know why he'd want to, but nobody can tell why crazy people do things, right?”

“Ruh-Ruh-Ruh—”

“Right. It's not that much different than the Joker in a Batman funnybook.” Just hearing his ideas out loud excited Richie. He wondered briefly if he was actually trying to prove something or just throwing up a smokescreen of words so he could see that room, that picture. In the end it probably didn't matter. In the end maybe just seeing Bill's eyes light up with their own excitement was enough.

“B-B-But wh-wh-where does the pih-hicture fit i-i-in?”

“What do
you
think, Billy?”

In a low voice, not looking at Richie, Bill said he didn't think it had anything to do with the murders. “I think it was Juh juh-
Georgie's
g-ghost.”

“A ghost in a
picture?”

Bill nodded.

Richie thought about it. The idea of ghosts gave his child's mind no trouble at all. He was sure there were such things. His parents were Methodists, and Richie went to church every Sunday and to Thursday-night Methodist Youth Fellowship meetings as well. He knew a great deal of the Bible already, and he knew the Bible believed in all sorts of weird stuff. According to the Bible, God Himself was at least one-third Ghost, and that was just the beginning. You could tell the Bible believed in demons, because Jesus threw a bunch of them out of this guy. Real chuckalicious ones, too. When Jesus asked the guy who had them what his name was, the demons answered and told Him to go join the Foreign Legion. Or something like that. The Bible believed in witches, or else why would it say “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”? Some of the stuff in the Bible was even better than the stuff in the horror comics. People getting boiled in oil or hanging themselves like Judas Iscariot; the story about how wicked King Ahaz fell off the tower and all the dogs came and licked up his blood; the mass baby-murders that had accompanied the births of both Moses and Jesus Christ; guys who came out of their graves or flew into the air; soldiers who witched down walls; prophets who saw the future and fought monsters. All of that was in the Bible and every word of it was true—so said Reverend Craig and so said Richie's folks
and so said Richie. He was perfectly willing to credit the possibility of Bill's explanation; it was the logic which troubled him.

“But you said you were scared. Why would George's ghost want to scare you, Bill?”

Bill put a hand to his mouth and wiped it. The hand was trembling slightly. “H-He's probably muh-muh-mad at m-m-me. For g-getting him kih-hilled. It was my fuh-fuh-fault. I s-sent him out with the buh-buh-buh—” He was incapable of getting the word out, so he rocked his hand in the air instead. Richie nodded to show he understood what Bill meant . . . but not to indicate agreement.

“I don't think so,” he said. “If you stabbed him in the back or shot him, that would be different. Or even if you, like, gave him a loaded gun that belonged to your dad to play with and he shot himself with it. But it wasn't a gun, it was just a boat. You didn't want to hurt him; in fact”—Richie raised one finger and waggled it at Bill in a lawyerly way—“you just wanted the kid to have a little fun, right?”

Bill thought back—thought desperately hard. What Richie had just said had made him feel better about George's death for the first time in months, but there was a part of him which insisted with quiet firmness that he was not
supposed
to feel better. Of
course
it was your fault, that part of him insisted; not entirely, maybe, but at least partly.

If not, how come there's that cold place on the couch between your mother and father? If not, how come no one ever says anything at the supper table anymore? Now it's just knives and forks rattling until you can't take it anymore and ask if you can be eh-eh-eh-excused, please.

It was as if
he
were the ghost, a presence that spoke and moved but was not quite heard or seen, a thing vaguely sensed but still not accepted as real.

He did not like the thought that he was to blame, but the only alternative he could think of to explain their behavior was much worse: that all the love and attention his parents had given him before had somehow been the result of George's presence, and with George gone there was nothing for him . . . and all of that had happened at random, for no reason at all. And if you put your ear to
that
door, you could hear the winds of madness blowing outside.

So he went over what he had done and felt and said on the day Georgie had died, part of him hoping that what Richie had said was
true, part of him hoping just as hard it was not. He hadn't been a saint of a big brother to George, that much was certain. They had had fights, plenty of them. Surely there had been one that day?

No. No fight. For one thing, Bill himself had still been feeling too punk to work up a really good quarrel with George. He had been sleeping, dreaming something, dreaming about some

(turtle)

funny little animal, he couldn't remember just what, and he had awakened to the sound of the diminishing rain outside and George muttering unhappily to himself in the dining room. He asked George what was wrong. George came in and said he was trying to make a paper boat from the directions in his
Best Book of Activities
but it kept coming out wrong. Bill told George to bring his book. And sitting next to Richie on the steps leading up to the seminary, he remembered how Georgie's eyes lit up when the paper boat came out right, and how good that look had made him feel, like Georgie thought he was a real hot shit, a straight shooter, the guy who could do it until it got done. Making him feel, in short, like a big brother.

The boat had killed George, but Richie was right—it hadn't been like handing George a loaded gun to play with. Bill hadn't known what was going to happen. No way he could.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath, feeling something like a rock—something he hadn't even known was there—go rolling off his chest. All at once he felt better, better about everything.

He opened his mouth to tell Richie this and burst into tears instead.

Alarmed, Richie put an arm around Bill's shoulders (after taking a quick glance around to make sure no one who might mistake them for a couple of fagolas was looking).

“You're okay,” he said. “You're okay, Billy, right? Come on. Turn off the waterworks.”

“I didn't wuh-wuh-want h-him t-to g-g-get kuh-hilled!”
Bill sobbed.
“TH-THAT WUH-WUH-WASN'T ON MY M-M-M-MIND AT UH-UH-ALL!”

“Christ, Billy, I know it wasn't,” Richie said. “If you'd wanted to scrub him, you woulda pushed him downstairs or something.” Richie patted Bill's shoulder clumsily and gave him a hard little hug before letting go. “Come on, quit bawlin, okay? You sound like a baby.”

Little by little Bill stopped. He still hurt, but this hurt seemed cleaner, as if he had cut himself open and taken out something that was rotting inside him. And that feeling of relief was still there.

“I-I didn't w-want him to get kuh-kuh-killed,” Bill repeated, “and ih-if y-y-you t-tell anybody I w-was c-c-cryin, I'll b-b-bust your n-n-nose.”

“I won't tell,” Richie said, “don't worry. He was your brother, for gosh sake. If my brother got killed, I'd cry my fuckin head off.”

“Yuh-Yuh-You d-don't have a buh-brother.”

“Yeah, but if I did.”

“Y-You w-w-would?”

“Course.” Richie paused, fixing Bill with a wary eye, trying to decide if Bill was really over it. He was still wiping his red eyes with his snotrag, but Richie decided he probably was. “All I meant was that I don't know why George would want to haunt you. So maybe the picture's got something to do with . . . well, with that other. The clown.”

“Muh-Muh-Maybe G-G-George d-d-doesn't nuh-nuh-know. Maybe h-he th-thinks—”

Richie understood what Bill was trying to say and waved it aside. “After you croak you know everything people ever thought about you, Big Bill.” He spoke with the indulgent air of a great teacher correcting a country bumpkin's fatuous ideas. “It's in the Bible. It says, ‘Yea, even though we can't see too much in the mirror right now, we will see through it like it was a window after we die.' That's in First Thessalonians or Second Babylonians, I forget which. It means—”

“I suh-suh-see what it m-m-means,” Bill said.

“So what do you say?”

“Huh?”

“Let's go up to his room and take a look. Maybe we'll get a clue about who's killing all the kids.”

“I'm s-s-scared to.”

“I am too,” Richie said, thinking it was just more sand, something to say that would get Bill moving, and then something heavy turned over in his midsection and he discovered it was true: he was scared green.

The two boys slipped into the Denbrough house like ghosts.

Bill's father was still at work. Sharon Denbrough was in the kitchen, reading a paperback at the kitchen table. The smell of supper—codfish—drifted out into the front hall. Richie called home so his mom would know he wasn't dead, just at Bill's.

“Someone there?” Mrs. Denbrough called as Richie put the phone down. They froze, eyeing each other guiltily. Then Bill called: “M-Me, Mom. And R-R-R-R-R—”

“Richie Tozier, ma'am,” Richie yelled.

“Hello, Richie,” Mrs. Denbrough called back, her voice disconnected, almost not there at all. “Would you like to stay for supper?”

“Thanks, ma'am, but my mom's gonna pick me up in half an hour or so.”

“Tell her I said hello, won't you?”

“Yes ma'am, I sure will.”

“C-Come on,” Bill whispered. “That's enough s-small talk.”

They went upstairs and down the hall to Bill's room. It was boy-neat, which meant it would have given the mother of the boy in question only a mild headache to look at. The shelves were stuffed with a helter-skelter collection of books and comics. There were more comics, plus a few models and toys and a stack of 45s, on the desk. There was also an old Underwood office model typewriter on it. His folks had given it to him for Christmas two years ago, and Bill sometimes wrote stories on it. He did this a bit more frequently since George's death. The pretending seemed to ease his mind.

There was a phonograph on the floor across from the bed with a pile of folded clothes stacked on the lid. Bill put the clothes in the drawers of his bureau and then took the records from the desk. He shuffled through them, picking half a dozen. He put them on the phonograph's fat spindle and turned the machine on. The Fleetwoods started singing “Come Softly Darling.”