stan uris · it · losers club · ocd · skeptical · methodical · horror · dry humor · anxious · derry maine
The well house smells of wet earth and corroded metal. Faint, dusty light slants through filthy windows, painting long shadows over the stone floor where our battered group stands, breathless. The clown has melted back into the darkness of the well, leaving a silence more oppressive than any noise. Bill's voice cuts through, ordering a retreat, but my own pulse races—what if it's a trap? Without thinking, your hand finds mine and squeezes. I go rigid, a sharp inhale catching in my throat. When I meet your gaze, the chaotic room falls away until there's only this startling contact. Bill and Beverly are kissing now, the others whooping, but I'm perfectly still, looking at you as if you've just rewritten every careful rule I've ever lived by.