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
–looking businessman’s shoes, and a girl swinging from her heels in an elm tree so that her underpants showed. But despite this bewildering intaglio of detail, none of them really needed Mike to point the clown out. Dressed in a loud checked vest-busting drummer’s suit, he was playing the shell-game with a bunch of drunken loggers.
He was winking at a lumber jack who had, to judge by the gape-mouthed look of surprise on his face, just picked the wrong nutshell. The drummer/clown was taking a coin from him.
‘Him again,’ Ben said. ‘What . . . a hundred years later?’
‘Just about,’ Mike said. ‘And here’s one from 1891.’
It was a clipping from the front page of the Derry News. HUZZAH! the headline proclaimed exuberantly. IRONWORKS OPENS! Just below this: ‘Town Turns Out for Gala Picnic.’ The pictur e showed a woodcut of the ribbon-cutting ceremony at the Kitchener Ironworks; its style reminded Bill of the Currier and Ives prints his mother had in the dining room, although this was nowhere near as polished. A fellow tricked out in a morning coat and tophat was holding a large pair of open-jawed scissors above the Ironworks ribbon while a crowd of perhaps five hundred watched. Off to the left was a clown — their clown — turning a handspring for a group of children. The artist had caught him upside down, turning his smile into a scream.
He passed the book on quickly to Richie.
The next picture was a photograph under which Will Hanlon had written: 1933: Repeal in Derry. Although none of the boys knew much about either the Volstead Act or its repeal, the picture made the salient facts clear. The photo was of Wally’s Spa down in Hell’s Half-Acre. The place was almost literally filled to the rafters with men wearing open-collared white shirts, straw boaters, lumbermen’s shirts, tee– shirts, banker’s suits. All of them were holding glasses and bottles victoriously aloft. There were two big signs in the window. WELCOME BACK, JOHN BARLEYCORN! one read. The other said: FREE BEER TONIGHT. The clown, dressed like the biggest dandy you ever saw (white shoes, spats, gangster pants), had his foot on the running board of a Reo auto and was drinking champagne from a lady’s high-heeled shoe.
‘1945,’ Mike said.
The Derry News again. The headline: JAPAN SURRENDERS — IT’S OVER! THANK GOD IT ‘S OVER! A parade was snake-dancing its way along Main Street toward Up-Mile Hill. And there was the clown in the background, wearing his silver suit with the orange buttons, frozen in the matrix of dots that made up the grainy newsprint photo, seeming to suggest (at least to Bill) that nothing was over, no one had surrendered, nothing was won, nil was still the rule, zilch still the custom; seeming to suggest above all that all was still lost.
Bill felt cold and dry and scared.
Suddenly the dots in the picture disappeared and it began to move.
‘That’s what — ‘ Mike began.
‘L-L-Look,’ Bill said. The word dropped out of his mouth like a partially melted ice-cube. ‘A-A –All of you luh-look at th-this!’
They crowded around.
‘Oh my God,’ Beverly whispered, awed.
‘That’s IT!’ Richie nearly screamed, pounding Bill on the back in his excitement. He looked around at Eddie’s white, drawn face and Stan Uris’s frozen one. ‘That’s what we saw in George’s room! That’s exactly what we —
‘Shhh,’ Ben said. ‘Listen.’ And, almost sobbing: ‘You can hear them — Christ, you can hear them in there.’
And in the silence that was only broken by the mild stir of the summer breeze, they all realized they could. The band was playing a martial marching tune, made faint and tinny by distance . . . or the passage of time . . . or whatever it was. The cheering of the crowd was like sounds that might come through on a badly tuned radio station. There were popping noises, also faint, like the muffled sound of snapping fingers.
‘Firecrackers,’ Beverly whispered, and rubbed at her eyes with hands that shook. ‘Those are firecrackers, aren’t they?’
No one answered. They watched the picture, their eyes eating up their faces.
The parade wiggled its way toward them, but just before the marchers reached the extreme foreground — at the point where it seemed they must march right out of the picture and into a world thirteen years later — they dropped from sight, as if on some kind of unknowable curve. The World War I soldiers first, their faces strangely old under their pie –plate helmets, with their sign which read THE DERRY VFW WELCOMES HOME OUR BRAVE BOYS, then the Boy Scouts, the Kiwanians, the
