It

Richie’s and Eddie’s, driving him to his knees and skidding him across the floor to the edge of the web. He reached out for one of the strands without thinking, and his hand immediately went numb, as if it had been injected with a hypo full of novocaine. The strand itself was as thick as a telephone-pole guy-wire.
‘Don’t touch that, Bill!’ Ben yelled, and Bill yanked his hand away in one quick jerk, leaving a raw place across his palm just below the fingers. It filled with blood and he staggered to his feet, eyes on the Spider.
It was scrabbling away from them, making Its way into the growing dimness at the back of the chamber as the light failed. It left puddles and pools of black blood behind as It went; somehow their confrontation had ruptured Its insides in a dozen, maybe a hundred places.
‘Bill, the web!’ Mike screamed. ‘Look out!’
He stepped backward, craning his neck up, as strands of Its web came floating down, striking the stone-flagged floor on either side of him like the bodies of meaty white snakes. They immediately began to lose shape, to flow into the cracks between the stones. The web was falling apart, coming loose from its many moorings. One of the bodies, wrapped up like a fly, came plunging down to strike the floor with a sickening rotted-gourd sound.
‘The Spider!’ Bill yelled. ‘Where is It?’
He could still hear It in his head, mewling and crying out in Its pain, and understood dimly that It had gone into the same tunnel It had thrown Bill into . . . but had It gone in there to flee back to the place where It had meant to send Bill . . . or to hide until they were gone? To die? Or escape?
‘Christ, the lights!’ Richie shouted. ‘The lights’re going out! What happened, Bill? Where did you go? We thought you were dead!’
In some confused part of his mind Bill knew that wasn’t true: if they had really thought him dead, they would have run, scattered, and It would have picked them off easily, one by one. Or perhaps it would be truer to say that they had thought him dead, b ut believed him alive.
We have to make sure! If It’s dying or gone back to where It came from, where the rest of It is, that’s fine. But what if Ifs just hurt? What if It can get better? What —
Stan’s shriek cut across his thoughts like broken glass. In the fading light Bill saw that one of the strands of webbing had come down on Stan’s shoulder. Before Bill could reach him, Alike had thrown himself at the smaller boy in a flying tackle. He drove Stan away and the piece of webbing snapped back, taking a piece of Stan’s polo shirt with it.
‘Get back!’ Ben yelled at them. ‘Get away from it, it’s all coming down!’ He seized Beverly’s hand and pulled her back toward the child –sized door while Stan struggled to his
feet, looked dazedly around, and the n grabbed Eddie. The two of them started toward Ben and Beverly, helping each other, looking like phantoms in the fading light.
Overhead, the spiderweb was drooping, collapsing on itself, losing its fearful symmetry. Bodies twirled lazily in the air like nightmarish plumb-bobs. Cross-strands fell in like the rotted rungs of some strange complex of ladders. Severed strands hit the stone flagging, hissed like cats, lost their shape, began to run.
Mike Hanlon wove his way through them as he would later weave his way through the opposing lines of nearly a dozen high-school football teams, head down, ducking and dodging. Richie joined him. Incredibly, Richie was laughing, although his hair was standing straight up on his head like the quills of a porcupine. The light grew dimmer, the phosphorescence that had coiled on the walls now dying away.
‘Bill!’ Mike shouted. ‘Come on! Get the frock out of there!’
‘What if It’s not dead?’ Bill screamed back. ‘We got to go after It, Mike! We got to make sure!’
A snarl of webbing sagged outward like a parachute and then fell with a nasty ripping sound that was like skin being pulled apart. Mike grabbed Bill’s arm and pulled him, stumbling, out of the way.
‘It’s dead!’ Eddie cried, joining them. His eyes were febrile lamps, his breathing a chilly winter-whistle in his throat. Fallen strands of webbing had sizzled complex scars into the plaster of Paris of his cast. ‘I heard It, It was dying,