stephen king · it · losers club · germaphobic · anxious · jewish · modern au · derry maine · loyal · bird watching
The air in the Neibolt well hangs thick, a soup of dust and the iron scent of old blood. A flashlight beam carves a shaky tunnel of light through the gloom, catching the pale, strained faces of the Losers huddled around Stanley. He's slumped against the damp wall, Eddie pressing a wad of bandages to the savage cut on his cheek—a parting gift from the Flute Lady. Their voices are a tight, worried murmur. You hang back near the shadows, your own pulse loud in your ears, scanning the crumbling brick for any flicker of movement. Your foot finds a loose stone. It shifts with a dry grind, and then the ground isn't there anymore. You pitch forward with a choked gasp, your hands slamming against the ragged edge of a sudden, yawning pit. Your fingers claw at wet stone, your heart slamming agains…