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
almost drugged. ‘Yes, that’s right, isn’t it? It’s starting again, isn’t it, Bill? It’s all starting to happen again.’
‘Y-Y-Yes, I th-think — ‘
Mike took Eddie’s hand and Richie took Beverly’s other hand. For a moment Ben only looked at them, and then, like a man in a dream, he raised his bloody hands to either side and stepped between Mike and Richie. He grasped their hands. The circle closed.
(Ah Chüd this is the Ritual of Chüd and the Turtle cannot help us)
Bill tried to scream but no sound came out. He saw Eddie’s head tilt back, the cords on his neck standing out. Bev’s hips bucked twice, fiercely, as if in an orgasm as short and sharp as the crack of a .22 pistol. Mike’s mouth moved strangely, seeming to laugh and grimace at the same time. In the silence of the library doors banged open and shut, the sound rolling like bowling balls. In the Periodicals Room, magazines flew in a windless hurricane. In Carole Banner’s office, the library’s IBM typewriter whirred into life and typed:
hethrusts
hisfistsagainst
thepostsandstillinsistshesees theghostshethrustshisfistsagainstthe
The type-ball jammed. The typewriter sizzled and utte red a thick electronic belch as everything inside overloaded. In Stack Two, the shelf of occult books suddenly tipped over, spilling Edgar Cayce, Nostradamus, Charles Fort, and the Apocrypha everywhere.
Bill felt an exalting sense of power. He was dimly aware that he had an erection, and that every hair on his head was standing up straight. The sense of force in the completed circle was incredible.
All the doors in the library slammed shut in unison.
The grandfather clock behind the checkout desk chimed once.
Then it was gone, as if someone had flicked off a switch.
They dropped their hands, looking at each other, dazed. No one said anything. As the sense of power ebbed, Bill felt a terrible sense of doom creep over him. He looked at their white, strained faces, and then down at his hands. Blood was smeared there, but the wounds which Stan Uris had made with a jagged piece of Coke bottle in August 1958 had closed up again, leaving only crooked white lines like knotted twine. He thought: That was the last time theseven of us were together . . . the day Stan made those cuts in the Barrens. Stan’s not here; he’s dead. And this is the last time the six of us are going to be together. I know it, I feel it.
Beverly was pressed against him, trembling. Bill put an arm around her. They all looked at him, their eyes huge and bright in the dimness, the long table where they had sat, littered with empty bottles, glasses, and overflowing ashtrays, a little island of light.
‘That’s enough,’ Bill said huskily. ‘Enough entertainment for one evening. We’ll save the ballroom dancing for another time.’
‘I remembered,’ Beverly said. She looked up at Bill, her eyes huge, her pale cheeks wet. ‘I remembered everything. My father finding out about you guys. Running. Bowers and Criss and Huggins. How I ran. The tunnel . . . the birds . . . It . . . I remember everything.’
‘Yeah,’ Richie said. ‘I do, too.’
Eddie nodded. ‘The pumping-station — ‘
Bill said, ‘And now Eddie — ‘
‘Go back now,’ Mike said. ‘Get some rest. It’s late.’
‘Walk with us, Mike,’ Beverly said.
‘No. I have to lock up. And I have to write a few things down . . . the minutes of the meeting, if you like. I won’t be long. Go ahead.’
They moved toward the door, not talking much. Bill and Beverly were together, Eddie, Richie, and Ben behind them. Bill held the door for her and she murmured thanks. As she went out onto the wide granite steps, Bill thought how young she looked, how vulnerable . . . He was dismally aware that he might be falling in love with her again. He tried to think of Audra but Audra seemed far away. She would be sleeping in their house in Fleet now as the sun came up and the milkman began his rounds.
Derry’s sky had clouded over again, and a low groundfog lay across the empty street in thick runners. Further up the street, the Derry Community House, narrow, tall, Victorian, brooded in blackness. Bill thought And whatever walked in Community House, walked alone. He had to stifle a wild cackle. Their footfalls seemed very loud. Beverly’s
