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
Henry pulled out the blade, which was long and wide and engraved with his name. The tip glittered in the afternoon sunshine.
‘I’ll gonna test you now,’ Henry said in that same reflective voice. ‘It’s exam time, Tits, and you better be ready.’
Ben wept. His heart thundered madly in his chest. Snot ran out of his nose and collected on his upper lip. His library books lay in a scatter at his feet. Henry stepped on Bulldozer, glanced down, and dealt it into the gutter with a sideswipe of one black engineer boot.
‘Here’s the first question on your exam, Tits. When somebody says «Let me copy» during finals, what are you going to say?’
‘Yes!’ Ben exclaimed immediately. ‘I’m going to say yes! Sure! Okay! Copy all you want!’
The Buck’s tip slid through two inches of air and pressed against Ben’s stomach. It was as cold as an ice-cube tray just out of the Frigidaire. Ben gasped his belly away from it. For a moment the world went gray. Henry’s mouth was moving but Ben couldn’t tell what he was saying. Henry was like a TV with the sound turned off and the world was swimming . . . swimming . . .
Don’t you dare faint! the panicky voice shrieked. If you faint he may get mad enough to kill y ou!
The world came back into some kind of focus. He saw that both Belch and Victor had stopped laughing. They looked nervous . . . almost scared. Seeing that had the effect of a head-clearing slap on Ben. All of a sudden they don’t know what he’s going to do, or how far he might go. However bad you thought things were, that’s how bad they really are . . . maybe even a little worse. You got to think. If you never did before or never do again, you better think now. Because his eyes say they’re right to look nervous. His eyes say he’s crazy as a bedbug.
‘That’s the wrong answer, Tits,’ Henry said. ‘If just anyone says «Let me copy,» I don’t give a red fuck what you do. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ Ben said, his belly hitching with sobs. ‘Yes, I got it.’
‘Well, okay. That’s one wrong, but the biggies are still coming up. You ready for the biggies?’
‘I . . . I guess so.’
A car came slowly toward them. It was a dusty ’51 Ford with an old man and woman propped up in the front seat like a pair of neglected department store mannequins. Ben saw the old man’s head turn slowly toward him. Henry stepped closer to Ben, hiding the knife. Ben could feel its point dimpling his flesh just above his bellybutton. It was still cold. He didn’t see how that could be, but it was.
‘Go ahead, yell,’ Henry said. ‘You’ll be pickin your fuckin guts off your sneakers.’ They were close enough to kiss. Ben could smell the sweet smell of Juicy Fruit gum on Henry’s breath.
The car passed and continued on down Kansas Street, as slow and serene as the pace car in the Tournament of Roses Parade.
‘All right, Tits, here’s the second question. If I say «Let me copy» during finals, what are you going to say?’
‘Yes. I’ll say yes. Right away.’
Henry smiled. ‘That’s good. You got that one right, Tits. Now here’s the third question: how am I going to be sure you never forget that?’
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ Ben whispered.
Henry smiled. His face lit up and was for a moment almost handsome. ‘I know!’ he said, as if he had discovered a great truth. ‘I know, Tits! I’ll carve my name on your big fat gut!’
Victor and Belch abruptly began laughing again. For a moment Ben felt a species of bewildered relief, thinking it had all been nothing but make-believe — a little shuck-and-jive the three of them had whomped up to scare the living hell out of him. But Henry Bowers wasn’t laughing, and Ben suddenly understood that Victor and Belch were laughing because they were relieved. It was obvious to both of them that Henry couldn’t be serious. Except Henry was .
The Buck knife slid upward, smooth as butter. Blood welled in a bright red line on Ben’s pallid skin.
‘Hey!’ Victor cried. The word came out muffled, in a startled gulp.
‘Hold him!’ Henry snarled. ‘You just hold him, hear me?’ Now there was nothing grave and reflective on Henry’s face; now it was the twisted face of a devil.
‘Jeezwm-crow Henry don’t really cut im!’
