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
on her feet, and it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Her wallet and credit-cards were at home. She felt in the pockets of the jeans and came up with nothing but a few puffs of lint. She didn’t have a dime; not so much as a red penny. She looked around at the residential neighborhood she was in — nice homes, manicured lawns and plantings, dark windows.
And suddenly she began to laugh.
Beverly Rogan sat on a low stone wall, her suitcase between her dirty feet, and laughed. The stars were out, and how bright they were! She tilted her head back and laughed at them, that wild exhilaration washing through her again like a tidal wave that lifted and carried and cleansed, a force so powerful that any conscious thought was lost; only her blood thought and its one powerful voice spoke to her in some inarticulate way of desire, although what it was it desired she neither knew nor cared. It was enough to feel that warmth filling her up with its insistence. Desire, she thought, and inside her that tidal wave of exhilaration seemed to gather speed, rushing her onward toward some inevitable crash.
She laughed at the stars, frightened but free, her terror as sharp as pain and as sweet as a ripe October apple, and when a light came on in an upstairs bedroom of the house this stone wall belonged to, she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and fled off into the night, still laughing.
6
Bill Denbrough Takes Time Out
‘Leave? Audra repeated. She looked at him, puzzled, a bit afraid, and then tucked her bare feet up and under her. The floor was cold. The whole cottage was cold, come to that. The south of England had been experiencing an exceptionally dank spring, and more than once, on his regular morning and evening walks, Bill Denbrough had found himself thinking of Maine . . . thinking in a surprised vague way of Derry.
The cottage was supposed to have central heating — the ad had said so, and there certainly was a furnace down there in the tidy little basement, tucked away in what had once been a coal-bin — but he and Audra had discovered early on in the shoot that the British idea of central heating was not at all the same as the American one. It seemed the Brits believed you had central heating as long as you didn’t have to piss away a scrim of ice in the toilet bowl when you got up in the morning. It was morning now — just quarter of eight. Bill had hung the phone up five minutes ago.
‘Bill, you can’t just leave. You know that.’
‘I have to,’ he said. There was a hutch on the far side of the room. He went to it, took a bottle of Glenfiddich from the top shelf and poured himself a drink. Some of it slopped over the side of the glass. Tuck,’ he muttered.
‘Who was that on the telephone? What are you scared of, Bill?’
‘I’m not scared.’
‘Oh? Your hands always shake like that? You always have your first drink before breakfast?’
He came back to his chair, robe flapping around his ankles, and sat down. He tried to smile, but it was a poor effort and he gave it up.
On the telly the BBC announcer was wrapping up this morning’s batch of bad news before going on to last evening’s football scores. When they had arrived in the small suburban village of Fleet a month before the shoot was scheduled to begin, they had both marvelled over the technical quality of British television — on a good Pye color set, it really did look as though you could climb right inside. More lines or something, Bill had said. I don’t know what it is, but it’s great, Audra had replied. That was before they discovered that much of the programming consisted of American shows such as Dallas and endless British sports events ranging from the arcane and boring (champion darts-throwing, in which all the participants looked like hypertensive sumo wrestlers) to the simply boring (British football was bad; cricket was even worse).
‘I’ve been thinking about home a lot lately,’ Bill said, and sipped his drink.
‘Home?’ she said, and looked so honestly puzzled that he laughed.
‘Poor Audra! Married almost eleven years to the guy and you don’t know doodley-squat about him. What do you know about that?’ He laughed again and swallowed the rest of his drink. His laughter had a quality she cared for as little as seeing him with a glass of Scotch in his hand at this hour of the morning. The laugh sounded like something that really wanted to be a howl of pain. ‘I wonder if any of the others have got husbands and wives who are just finding out how little they know. I suppose they must. ‘
‘Billy, I know that I love yo u,’ she said. ‘For eleven
