A promise made twenty-eight years ago calls seven adults to reunite in Derry, Maine, where as teenagers they battled an evil creature that preyed on the city’s children. Unsure that their Losers Club had vanquished the creature all those years ago, the seven had vowed to return to Derry if IT should ever reappear. Now, children are being murdered again and their repressed memories of that summer return as they prepare to do battle with the monster lurking in Derry’s sewers once more.
Авторы: King Stephen Edwin
kill them in this cellar that stank of damp earth and the cheap wine that had been spilled in the corners. Knowing but needing to see. ‘There’s a wuh-wuh-window at the t-top of the c-coal!’
The paws were covered with dense brown hair that curled and coiled like wire; the fingers were tipped with jagged nails. Now Richie saw a silk jacket. It was black with orange piping — the Derry High School colors.
‘G-G –Go!’ Bill screamed, and gave Richie a gigantic shove. Richie went sprawling into the coal. Sharp jags and corners of it poked him painfully, breaking through his daze. More coal avalanched over his hands. That mad snarling went on and on.
Panic slipped its hood over Richie’s mind.
Barely aware of what he was doing, he scrambled up the mountain of coal, gaining ground, sliding back, lunging upward again, screaming as he went. The window at the top was grimed black with coal-dust and let in next to no light at all. It was latched shut. Richie seized the latch, which was of the sort that turned, and threw all his weight against it. The latch moved not at all. The snarling was closer now.
The gun went off below him, the sound nearly deafening in the closed room. Gunsmoke, sharp and acrid, stung Richie’s nose. It shocked him back to some sort of awareness and he realized that he had been trying to turn the thumb-latch the wrong way. He reversed the
direction of the force he was applying, and the latch gave with a protracted rusty squeal. Coaldust sifted down on his hands like pepper.
The gun went off again with a second deafening bang. Bill Denbrough shouted, ‘YOUKILLED MY BROTHER, YOU FUCKER!’
For a moment the creature which had come down the stairs seemed to laugh, seemed to speak — it was as if a vicious dog had suddenly begun to bark out garbled words, and for a moment Richie thought the thing in the high-school jacket snarled back, I’m going to kill you too.
‘Richie!’ Bill screamed then, and Richie heard coal clattering and falling again as Bill scrambled up. The snarls and roars continued. Wood splintered. There were mingled barks and howls — sounds out of a cold nightmare.
Richie gave the window a tremendous shove, not caring if the glass broke and cut his hands to ribbons. He was beyond caring. It did not break; it swung outward on an old steel hinge flaked with rust. More coal-dust sifted down, this time on Richie’s face. He wriggled out into the side yard like an eel, smelling sweet fresh air, feeling the long grass whip at his face. He was dimly aware that it was raining. He could see the thick stalks of the giant sunflowers, green and hairy.
The Walther went off a third time, and the beast in the cellar screamed, a primitive sound of pure rage. Then Bill cried: ‘It’s g-got me, Richie! Help! It’s g-g-got me!’
Richie turned around on his hands and knees and saw the terrified circle of his friend’s upturned face in the square of the oversized cellar window through which a winter’s load of coal had once been funnelled each October.
Bill was lying spreadeagled on the coal. His hands waved and clutched fruitlessly for the window frame, which wa s just out of reach. His shirt and jacket were rucked up almost to his breastbone. And he was sliding backward . . . no, he was being pulled backward by something Richie could barely see. It was a moving, bulking shadow behind Bill. A shadow that snarled and gibbered and sounded almost human.
Richie didn’t need to see it. He had seen it the previous Saturday, on the screen of the Aladdin Theater. It was mad, totally mad, but even so it never occurred to Richie to doubt either his own sanity or his conclusion.
The Teenage Werewolf had Bill Denbrough. Only it wasn’t that guy Michael Landon with a lot of makeup on his face and a lot of fake fur. It was real.
As if to prove it, Bill screamed again.
Richie reached in and caught Bill’s hands in h is own. The Walther pistol was in one of them, and for the second time that day Richie looked into its black eye . . . only this time it was loaded.
They tussled for Bill — Richie gripping his hands, the Werewolf gripping his ankles.
‘G-G –Get out of h-here, Richie!’ Bill screamed. ‘G-Get — ‘
The face of the Werewolf suddenly swam out of the dark. Its forehead was low and prognathous, covered with scant hair. Its cheeks were hollow and furry. Its eyes were a dark brown, filled with horrible intelligence, horrible awareness. Its mouth dropped open and it began to snarl.
