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
Beverly nods. ‘We were digging out the clubhouse when you brought your father’s photograph album to the Barrens, Mike.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ Bill says, sitting suddenly bolt –upright. ‘And the pictures — ‘
Richie nods grimly. ‘The same trick as in Georgie’s room. Only that time we all saw it.’
Ben says, ‘I remembered what happened to the extra silver dollar.’
They all turn to look at him.
‘I gave the other three to a friend of mine before I came out here,’ Ben says quietly. ‘For his kids. I remembered there had been a fourth, but I couldn’t remember what happened to it. Now I do.’ He looks at Bill. ‘We made a silver slug out of it, didn’t we? You, me, and Richie. At first we were going to make a silver bullet — ‘
‘You were pretty sure you could do it,’ Richie agrees. ‘But in the end — ‘
‘We got c-cold fuh-feet.’ Bill nods slowly. The memory has fallen naturally into its place, and he hears that same low but distinct click! when it happens. We’re getting closer, he thinks.
‘We went back to Neibolt Street,’ Richie says. ‘All of us.’
‘You saved my life, Big Bill,’ Ben says suddenly and Bill shakes his head. ‘ You did, though,’ Ben persists, and this time Bill doesn’t shake his head. He suspects that maybe he had done just that, although he does not yet remember how . . . and was it him? He thinks maybe Beverly . . . but that is not there. Not yet, anyway.
‘Excuse me for a second,’ Mike says. ‘I’ve got a sixpack in the back fridge.’
‘Have one of mine,’ Richie says.
‘Hanlon no drinkum white man’s beer,’ Mike replies. ‘Especially not yours, Trashmouth.’
‘Beep-beep, Mikey,’ Rickie says solemnly, and Mike goes to get his beer on a warm wave of their laughter.
He snaps on the light in the lounge, a tacky little room with seedy chairs, a Silex badly in need of scrubbing, and a bulletin board covered with old notices, wage and hour information, and a few New Yorker cartoons now turning yellow and curling up at the edges. He opens the little refrigerator and feels the shock sink into him, bone-deep and icewhite, the way February cold sank into you when February was here and it seemed that April never would be. Blue and orange balloons drift out in a flood, dozens of them, a New Year’s Eve bouquet of party-balloons, and he thinks incoherently in the midst of his fear,
