It

the resemblance between Beverly and the woman in the web. Her hair was long and red. Her eyes were open but glassy and unmoving. A line of spittle had run from the left corner of her mouth down to her chin. She had been attached to one of the web’s main cables by a gossamer harness that went around her waist and under both arms so that she lolled forward in a half-bow, arms and legs dangling limply. Her feet were bare.
Richie saw another body crumpled at the foot of her web, a man he had never seen before . . . and yet his mind registered an almost subconscious resemblance to the late unlamented Henry Bowers. Blood had run from both of the stranger’s eyes and caked in a foam around his mouth and on his chin He —
Then Beverly was screaming. ‘Something’s wrong! Something’s gone wrong, do something, for Christ’s sake won’t somebody DO something —
Richie’s gaze snapped back to Bill and the Spider . . . and he sensed / heard monstrous laughter. Bill’s face was stretching in some subtle way. His skin had gone parchment-sallow, as shiny as the skin of a very old person. His eyes were rolled up to the whites.
Oh Bill, where are you?
As Richie watched, blood suddenly burst from Bill’s nose in a foam. His mouth was writhing, trying to scream . . . and now the Spider was advancing on him again. It was turning, presenting Its stinger.
It means to kill him . . . kill his body, anyway . . . while his mind is somewhere else. It means to shut him out forever. It’s winning . . . Bill, where are you? For Christ’s sake, where are you?
And somewhere, faintly, from some unimaginable distance, he heard Bill scream . . . and the words, although meaningless, were crystal-clear and full of sickening
(the Turtle is dead oh God the Turtle really is dead)
despair.
Bev shrieked again and put her hands to her ears as if to shut out that fading voice. The Spider’s stinger rose and Richie bolted at It, a grin spreading up toward his ears, and he called out in his best Irish Cop’s Voice:
‘Here, here, me foine girl! Just what in the hell do ye think ye’re doin? Belay that guff before I snatch yer pettiskirts and snap yer smithyriddles!’
The Spider stopped laughing, and Richie felt a rising howl of anger and pain inside Its head. Hurt It! he thought triumphantly. Hurt It, how about that, hurt It, and guess what? I’VE GOT ITS TONGUE! I THINK BILL MISSED IT SOMEHOW BUT WHILE IT WAS DISTRACTED I GOT —
Then, screaming at him, Its cries a hive of furious bees in his head, Richie was whacked out of himself and into darkness, dimly aware that It was trying to shake him loose. It was doing a pretty good job, too. Terror washed through him, and then was replaced by a sense of cosmic absurdity. He remembered Beverly with his Duncan yo-yo, showing him how to make it sleep, walk the dog, go around the world. And now here he was, Richie the Human Yo-Yo, and Its tongue was the string. Here he was, and this wasn’t called walking the dog but maybe walking the Spider, and if that wasn’t funny, what was?
Richie laughed. It wasn’t polite to laugh with your mouth full, of course, but he doubted if anybody out here read Miss Manners.
That got him laughing again, and he bit in harder.
The Spider screamed and shook him furiously, howling Its anger at being surprised again — It had believed only the writer would challenge It, and now this man who was laughing like a crazy boy had seized It when It was least prepared.
Richie felt himself slipping.
— hold eet a secon, senhorrita, we ees gain out here together or I ain gonna sell you no
tickets in la lotería after all, and every one is a big winner, I swear on my mamma’s name
He felt his teeth catch again, more firmly this time. And there was a fainting sort of pain as It drove Its fangs into his own tongue. Boy, it was still pretty funny, though. Even in the dark, being hurled