It (55 page)

The two boys were gone.

There were no boys in the picture anywhere. But—

“Look,” Richie whispered, and pointed. He was careful to keep the tip of his finger well away from the picture. An arc showed just over the low concrete wall at the edge of the Canal—the top of something round.

Something like a balloon.

They got out of George's room just in time. Bill's mother was a voice at the foot of the stairs and a shadow on the wall. “Have you boys been wrestling?” she asked sharply. “I heard a thud.”

“Just a lih-lih-little, M-Mom.” Bill threw a sharp glance at Richie.
Be quiet,
it said.

“Well, I want you to stop it. I thought the ceiling was going to come right down on my head.”

“W-W-We will.”

They heard her go back toward the front of the house. Bill had wrapped his handkerchief around his bleeding hand; it was turning red and in a moment would start to drip. The boys went down to the bathroom, where Bill held his hand under the faucet until the bleeding stopped. Cleaned, the cuts looked thin but cruelly deep. Looking at their white lips and the red meat just inside them made Richie feel sick to his stomach. He wrapped them with Band-Aids as fast as he could.

“H-H-Hurts like hell,” Bill said.

“Well why'd you want to go and put your hand in there, you wet end?”

Bill looked solemnly at the rings of Band-Aids on his fingers, then up at Richie. “I-I-It was the cluh-hown,” he said. “It w-w-was the c-clown pretending to be Juh-juh-George.”

“That's right,” Richie said. “Like it was the clown pretending to be the mummy when Ben saw it. Like it was the clown pretending to be that sick bum Eddie saw.”

“The luh-luh-leper.”

“Right.”

“But ih-is it r-r-really a cluh-cluh-clown?”

“It's a monster,” Richie said flatly. “Some kind of monster. Some kind of monster right here in Derry. And it's killing kids.”

On a Saturday, not long after the incident of the dam in the Barrens, Mr. Nell, and the picture that moved, Richie, Ben, and Beverly Marsh came face to face with not one monster but two—and they paid to do it. Richie did, anyway. These monsters were scary but not really dangerous; they stalked their victims on the screen of the Aladdin Theater while Richie, Ben, and Bev watched from the balcony.

One of the monsters was a werewolf, played by Michael Landon, and he was cool because even when he was the werewolf he still had sort of a duck's ass haircut. The other was this smashed-up hotrodder, played by Gary Conway. He was brought back to life by a descendant of Victor Frankenstein, who fed all parts he didn't need to a bunch of alligators he kept in the basement. Also on the program: a Movie Tone Newsreel that showed the latest Paris fashions and the latest Vanguard rocket explosions at Cape Canaveral, two Warner Brothers cartoons, one Popeye cartoon, and a Chilly Willy cartoon (for some reason the hat Chilly Willy wore always cracked Richie up), and
PREVUES OF COMING ATTRACTIONS
. The coming attractions included two pictures Richie immediately put on his gotta-see list:
I Married a Monster from Outer Space
and
The Blob.

Ben was very quiet during the show. Ole Haystack had nearly been spotted by Henry, Belch, and Victor earlier, and Richie assumed that was all that was troubling him. Ben, however, had forgotten all about the creeps (they were sitting close to the screen down below, chucking popcorn boxes at each other and hooting). Beverly was the reason for his silence. Her nearness was so overwhelming that he was almost ill with it. His body would break out in goosebumps and then, if she should so much as shift in her seat, his skin would flash hot, as if with a tropical fever. When her hand brushed his reaching for the popcorn, he trembled with exaltation. He thought later that those three hours in the dark next to Beverly had been both the longest and shortest hours of his life.

Richie, unaware that Ben was in deep throes of calf-love, was
feeling just as fine as paint. In his book the only thing any better than a couple of Francis the Talking Mule pictures was a couple of horror pictures in a theater filled with kids, all of them yelling and screaming at the gory parts. He certainly did not connect any of the goings-ons in the two low-budget American-International pictures they were watching with what was going on in town . . . not then, at least.

He had seen the Twin Shock Show Saturday Matinee ad in the
News
on Friday morning and had almost immediately forgotten how badly he had slept the night before—and how he had finally gotten up and turned on the light in his closet, a real baby trick for sure, but he hadn't been able to get a wink of sleep until he'd done it. But by the following morning things had seemed normal again . . . well, almost. He began to think that maybe he and Bill had just shared a hallucination. Of course the cuts on Bill's fingers weren't a hallucination, but maybe they'd just been paper-cuts from some of the sheets in Georgie's album. Pretty thick paper. Could of been. Maybe. Besides, there was no law saying he had to spend the next ten years thinking about it, was there? Nope.

And so, following an experience that might well have sent an adult running for the nearest headshrinker, Richie Tozier got up, ate a giant pancake breakfast, saw the ad for the two horror movies on the Amusements page of the paper, checked his funds, found them a little low (well . . . “nonexistent” might actually have been a better word), and began to pester his father for chores.

His dad, who had come to the table already wearing his white dentist's tunic, put down the Sports pages and poured himself a second cup of coffee. He was a pleasant-looking man with a rather thin face. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles, was developing a bald spot at the back of his head, and would die of cancer of the larynx in 1973. He looked at the ad to which Richie was pointing.

“Horror movies,” Wentworth Tozier said.

“Yeah,” Richie said, grinning.

“Feel like you have to go,” Wentworth Tozier said.

“Yeah!”

“Feel like you'll probably die in convulsions of disappointment if you don't get to see those two trashy movies.”

“Yeah, yeah, I would! I know I would!
Graaaag!”
Richie fell out of
his chair onto the floor, clutching his throat, his tongue sticking out. This was Richie's admittedly peculiar way of turning on the charm.

“Oh God, Richie, will you please stop it?” his mother asked him from the stove, where she was frying him a couple of eggs to top off the pancakes.

“Gee, Rich,” his father said as Richie got back into his chair. “I guess I must have forgotten to pay you your allowance on Monday. That's the only reason I can think of for you needing more money on Friday.”

“Well . . .”

“Gone?”

“Well . . .”

“That's an extremely deep subject for a boy with such a shallow mind,” Wentworth Tozier said. He put his elbow on the table and then cupped his chin on the palm of his hand, regarding his only son with what appeared to be deep fascination. “Where'd it go?”

Richie immediately fell into the Voice of Toodles the English Butler. “Why, I spent it, didn't I, guv'nor? Pip-pip, cheerio, and all that rot! My part of the war effort. All got to do our bit to beat back the bloody Hun, don't we? Bit of a sticky wicket, ay-wot? Bit of a wet hedgehog, wot-wot? Bit of a—”

“Bit of a pile of bullshit,” Went said amiably, and reached for the strawberry preserves.

“Spare me the vulgarity at the breakfast table, if you please,” Maggie Tozier said to her husband as she brought Richie's eggs over to the table. And to Richie: “I don't know why you want to fill your head up with such awful junk anyway.”

“Aw, Mom,” Richie said. He was outwardly crushed, inwardly jubilant. He could read both of his parents like books—well-worn and well-loved books—and he was pretty sure he was going to get what he wanted: chores and permission to go to the show Saturday afternoon.

Went leaned forward toward Richie and smiled widely. “I think I have you right where I want you,” he said.

“Is that right, Dad?” Richie said, and smiled back . . . a trifle uneasily.

“Oh yes. You know our lawn, Richie? You are familiar with our lawn?”

“Indeed I am, guv'nor,” Richie said, becoming Toodles again—or trying to. “Bit shaggy, ay-wot?”

“Wot-wot,” Went agreed. “And you, Richie, will remedy that condition.”

“I will?”

“You will. Mow it, Richie.”

“Okay, Dad, sure,” Richie said, but a terrible suspicion had suddenly blossomed in his mind. Maybe his dad didn't mean just the front lawn.

Wentworth Tozier's smile widened to a predatory shark's grin.
“All
of it, O idiot child of my loins. Front. Back. Sides. And when you finish, I will cross your palm with two green pieces of paper with the likeness of George Washington on one side and a picture of a pyramid o'ertopped with the Ever-Watching Oculary on the other.”

“I don't get you, Dad,” Richie said, but he was afraid he did.

“Two bucks.”

“Two bucks for the
whole lawn?”
Richie cried, genuinely wounded. “It's the biggest lawn on the
block!
Jeez, Dad!”

Went sighed and picked the paper up again. Richie could read the front page headline:
MISSING BOY PROMPTS NEW FEARS
. He thought briefly of George Denbrough's strange scrapbook—but that had surely been a hallucination . . . and even if it hadn't been, that was yesterday and this was today.

“Guess you didn't want to see those movies as bad as you thought,” Went said from behind the paper. A moment later his eyes appeared over the top, studying Richie. Studying him a trifle smugly, in truth. Studying him the way a man with four of a kind studies his poker opponent over the fan of his cards.

“When the Clark twins do it all, you give them two dollars
each!”

“That's true,” Went admitted. “But as far as I know,
they
don't want to go to the movies tomorrow. Or if they do, they must have funds sufficient to the occasion, because they haven't popped by to check the state of the herbiage surrounding our domicile lately. You, on the other hand,
do
want to go and find yourself lacking the funds to do so. That pressure you feel in your midsection may be the five pancakes and two eggs you ate for breakfast, Richie, or it may just be the barrel I have you over. Wot-wot?” Went's eyes submerged behind the paper again.

“He's blackmailing me,” Richie said to his mother, who was eating dry toast. She was trying to lose weight again. “This is blackmail, I just hope you know that.”

“Yes, dear, I know that,” his mother said. “There's egg on your chin.”

Richie wiped the egg off his chin. “Three bucks if I have it all done when you get home tonight?” he asked the newspaper.

His father's eyes appeared again briefly. “Two-fifty.”

“Oh, man,” Richie said. “You and Jack Benny.”

“My idol,” Went said from behind the paper. “Make up your mind, Richie. I want to read these box scores.”

“Deal,” Richie said, and sighed. When your folks had you by the balls, they really knew how to squeeze. It was pretty chuckalicious, when you thought it over.

As he mowed, he practiced his Voices.

He finished—front, back, and sides—by three o'clock Friday afternoon, and began Saturday with two dollars and fifty cents in his jeans. Pretty damn near a fortune. He called Bill up, but Bill told him glumly that he had to go up to Bangor and take some kind of speech-therapy test.

Richie sympathized and then added in his best Stuttering Bill Voice: “G-G-Give em h-h-hell, Buh-Buh-Big Bih-Bill.”

“Your f-f-face and my buh-buh-butt, T-T-Tozier,” Bill said, and hung up.

He called Eddie Kaspbrak next, but Eddie sounded even more depressed than Bill—his mother had gotten them each a full-day bus-pass, he said, and they were going to visit Eddie's aunts in Haven and Bangor and Hampden. All three of them were fat, like Mrs. Kaspbrak, and all three of them were single.

“They'll all pinch my cheek and tell me how much I've grown,” Eddie said.

“That's cause they know how cute you are, Eds—just like me. I saw what a cutie you were the first time I met you.”

“Sometimes you're really a turd, Richie.”

“It takes one to know one, Eds, and you know em all. You gonna be down in the Barrens next week?”

“I guess so, if you guys are. Want to play guns?”

“Maybe. But . . . I think me and Big Bill have got something to tell you.”

“What?”

“It's really Bill's story, I guess. I'll see you. Enjoy your aunts.”

“Very funny.”

His third call was to Stan the Man, but Stan was in dutch with his folks for breaking their picture window. He had been playing flying-saucer with a pie-plate and it took a bad bank. Kee-rash. He had to do chores all weekend, and probably next weekend, too. Richie commiserated and then asked Stan if he would be coming down to the Barrens next week. Stan said he guessed so, if his father didn't decide to ground him, or something.

“Jeez, Stan, it was just a window,” Richie said.

“Yeah, but a
big
one,” Stan said, and hung up.

Richie started to leave the living room, then thought of Ben Hanscom. He thumbed through the telephone book and found a listing for an Arlene Hanscom. Since she was the only lady Hanscom among the four listed, Richie figured it had to be Ben's number and called.

“I'd like to go, but I already spent my allowance,” Ben said. He sounded depressed and ashamed by the admission—he had, in fact, spent it all on candy, soda, chips, and beef-jerky strips.

Richie, who was rolling in dough (and who didn't like to go to the movies alone), said: “I got plenty of money. You can gimme owesies.”