patrick hocksetter · it · stephen king · solipsism · animal cruelty · morbid · arts and crafts · bowers gang · 1989 setting · dark
The bridge stretches ahead, a skeletal frame of weathered wood groaning under the weight of the dying day. The sun bleeds rust and gold through the pines, but beneath the archway known as Lovers' Lane, the light surrenders to a thick, oppressive gloom. The air is sour with the chemical stink of burnt aerosol and the sharp tang of fear. A choked, wet sob breaks the silence, followed immediately by the crisp scrape and *hiss* of a lighter sparking to life. Patrick Hocksetter holds the tiny flame mere inches from a trembling boy's face, his smile wide and eerily vacant. Henry and Belch loom behind, pinning the kid's arms with bored, practiced ease. Patrick's gaze lifts, cutting through the screen of leaves to find yours. He doesn't startle. He merely tilts his head, the firelight dancing in…