It

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.
4
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. Th e 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.
Th ere 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.’
Richie held his nose.
Bill grinned in spite of his thumping heart. ‘Th-They d-don’t luh-luh –hike rock and r-roll,’ he said. ‘They g-gave me this wuh-one for my b-b-birthday. Also two P-Pat B-B-Boone records and Tuh-T u h – Tommy Sands. I keep L-L-L i t t l e R u h –Richard and Scuh – hreamin J– J a y Hawkins for when they’re not h-here. But if she hears the m-m-music she’ll th-think we’re i-in m-my room. C-C-Come o-on.’
George’s room was across the hall. The door was shut. Richie looked at it and licked his lips.
‘They don’t keep it locked?’ he whispered to Bill. Suddenly he found himself hoping it was locked. Suddenly he was having trouble believing this had been his idea.
Bill, his face pale, shook his head and turned the knob. He stepped in and looked back at Richie. After a moment Richie followed. Bill shut the door behind them, muffling the Fleetwoods. Richie jumped a little at the soft snick of the latch.
He looked around, fearful and intensely curious at the same tune. The first thing he noticed was the dry mustiness of the air — No one’s opened a window in here for a long time, he thought. Heck, no one’s breathed in here for a long time. That’s really what it feels like. He shuddered a little at the thought and licked his lips again.
His eye fell on George’s bed, and he thought of George sleeping now under a comforter of earth in Mount Hope Cemetery. Rotting there. His hands not folded because you needed two hands to do the old folding routine, and George had been buried with only