It

by Stephen King

  "No such 1-1-luck," Bill said, but he stopped, laid Silver carefully down on the edge of the green Theological Seminary lawn, and the two boys sat on the wide stone steps which led up to the rambling red Victorian structure.

  "What a d-d-day," Bill said glumly. There were dark purplish patches under his eyes. His face looked white and used. "You better call your house when w-we get to muhmine. So your f-folks don't go b-b-bananas."

  "Yeah. You bet. Listen, Bill--"

  Richie paused for a moment, thinking about Ben's mummy, Eddie's leper, and whatever Stan had almost told them. For a moment something swam in his own mind, something about that Paul Bunyan statue out by the City Center. But that had only been a dream, for God's sake.

  He pushed away such irrelevant thoughts and plunged.

  "Let's go up to your house, what do you say? Take a look in Georgie's room. I want to see that picture."

  Bill looked at Richie, shocked. He tried to speak but could not; his stress was simply too great. He settled for shaking his head violently.

  Richie said, "You heard Eddie's story. And Ben's. Do you believe what they said?"

  "I don't nuh-nuh-know. I th-hink they m-m-must have suh-seen suh-homething."

  "Yeah. Me too. All the kids that've been killed around here, I think all of them would have had stories to tell, too. The only difference between Ben and Eddie and those other kids is that Ben and Eddie didn't get caught."

  Bill raised his eyebrows but showed no great surprise. Richie had supposed Bill would have taken it that far himself. He couldn't talk so good, but he was no dummy.

  "So now dig on this awhile, Big Bill," Richie said. "A guy could dress up in a clown suit and kill kids. I don't know why he'd want to, but nobody can tell why crazy people do things, right?"

  "Ruh-Ruh-Ruh--"

  "Right. It's not that much different than the Joker in a Batman funnybook." Just hearing his ideas out loud excited Richie. He wondered briefly if he was actually trying to prove something or just throwing up a smokescreen of words so he could see that room, that picture. In the end it probably didn't matter. In the end maybe just seeing Bill's eyes light up with their own excitement was enough.

  "B-B-But wh-wh-where does the pih-hicture fit i-i-in?"

  "What do you think, Billy?"

  In a low voice, not looking at Richie, Bill said he didn't think it had anything to do with the murders. "I think it was Juh juh-Georgie's g-ghost."

  "A ghost in a picture?"

  Bill nodded.

  Richie thought about it. The idea of ghosts gave his child's mind no trouble at all. He was sure there were such things. His parents were Methodists, and Richie went to church every Sunday and to Thursday-night Methodist Youth Fellowship meetings as well. He knew a great deal of the Bible already, and he knew the Bible believed in all sorts of weird stuff. According to the Bible, God Himself was at least one-third Ghost, and that was just the beginning. You could tell the Bible believed in demons, because Jesus threw a bunch of them out of this guy. Real chuckalicious ones, too. When Jesus asked the guy who had them what his name was, the demons answered and told Him to go join the Foreign Legion. Or something like that. The Bible believed in witches, or else why would it say "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live"? Some of the stuff in the Bible was even better than the stuff in the horror comics. People getting boiled in oil or hanging themselves like Judas Iscariot; the story about how wicked King Ahaz fell off the tower and all the dogs came and licked up his blood; the mass baby-murders that had accompanied the births of both Moses and Jesus Christ; guys who came out of their graves or flew into the air; soldiers who witched down walls; prophets who saw the future and fought monsters. All of that was in the Bible and every word of it was true--so said Reverend Craig and so said Richie's folks and so said Richie. He was perfectly willing to credit the possibility of Bill's explanation; it was the logic which troubled him.

  "But you said you were scared. Why would George's ghost want to scare you, Bill?"

  Bill put a hand to his mouth and wiped it. The hand was trembling slightly. "H-He's probably muh-muh-mad at m-m-me. For g-getting him kih-hilled. It was my fuh-fuhfault. I s-sent him out with the buh-buh-buh--" He was incapable of getting the word out, so he rocked his hand in the air instead. Richie nodded to show he understood what Bill meant ... but not to indicate agreement.

  "I don't think so," he said. "If you stabbed him in the back or shot him, that would be different. Or even if you, like, gave him a loaded gun that belonged to your dad to play with and he shot himself with it. But it wasn't a gun, it was just a boat. You didn't want to hurt him; in fact"--Richie raised one finger and waggled it at Bill in a lawyerly way--"you just wanted the kid to have a little fun, right?"

  Bill thought back--thought desperately hard. What Richie had just said had made him feel better about George's death for the first time in months, but there was a part of him which insisted with quiet firmness that he was not supposed to feel better. Of course it was your fault, that part of him insisted; not entirely, maybe, but at least partly.

  If not, how come there's that cold place on the couch between your mother and father? If not, how come no one ever says anything at the supper table anymore? Now it's just knives and forks rattling until you can't take it anymore and ask if you can be eh-eh-eh-excused, please.

  It was as if he were the ghost, a presence that spoke and moved but was not quite heard or seen, a thing vaguely sensed but still not accepted as real.

  He did not like the thought that he was to blame, but the only alternative he could think of to explain their behavior was much worse: that all the love and attention his parents had given him before had somehow been the result of George's presence, and with George gone there was nothing for him ... and all of that had happened at random, for no reason at all. And if you put your ear to that door, you could hear the winds of madness blowing outside.

  So he went over what he had done and felt and said on the day Georgie had died, part of him hoping that what Richie had said was true, part of him hoping just as hard it was not. He hadn't been a saint of a big brother to George, that much was certain. They had had fights, plenty of them. Surely there had been one that day?

  No. No fight. For one thing, Bill himself had still been feeling too punk to work up a really good quarrel with George. He had been sleeping, dreaming something, dreaming about some

  (turtle)

  funny little animal, he couldn't remember just what, and he had awakened to the sound of the diminishing rain outside and George muttering unhappily to himself in the dining room. He asked George what was wrong. George came in and said he was trying to make a paper boat from the directions in his Best Book of Activities but it kept coming out wrong. Bill told George to bring his book. And sitting next to Richie on the steps leading up to the seminary, he remembered how Georgie's eyes lit up when the paper boat came out right, and how good that look had made him feel, like Georgie thought he was a real hot shit, a straight shooter, the guy who could do it until it got done. Making him feel, in short, like a big brother.

  The boat had killed George, but Richie was right--it hadn't been like handing George a loaded gun to play with. Bill hadn't known what was going to happen. No way he could.

  He drew a deep, shuddering breath, feeling something like a rock--something he hadn't even known was there--go rolling off his chest. All at once he felt better, better about everything.

  He opened his mouth to tell Richie this and burst into tears instead.

  Alarmed, Richie put an arm around Bill's shoulders (after taking a quick glance around to make sure no one who might mistake them for a couple of fagolas was looking).

  "You're okay," he said. "You're okay, Billy, right? Come on. Turn off the waterworks."

  "I didn't wuh-wuh-want h-him t-to g-g-get kuh-hilled!" Bill sobbed. "TH-THAT WUH-WUH-WASN'T ON MY M-M-M-MIND AT UH-UH-ALL!"

  "Christ, Billy, I know it wasn't," Richie said. "If you'd wanted to scrub him, you woulda pushed him do
wnstairs or something." Richie patted Bill's shoulder clumsily and gave him a hard little hug before letting go. "Come on, quit bawlin, okay? You sound like a baby."

  Little by little Bill stopped. He still hurt, but this hurt seemed cleaner, as if he had cut himself open and taken out something that was rotting inside him. And that feeling of relief was still there.

  "I-I didn't w-want him to get kuh-kuh-killed," Bill repeated, "and ih-if y-y-you t-tell anybody I w-was c-c-cryin, I'll b-b-bust your n-n-nose."

  "I won't tell," Richie said, "don't worry. He was your brother, for gosh sake. If my brother got killed, I'd cry my fuckin head off."

  "Yuh-Yuh-You d-don't have a buh-brother."

  "Yeah, but if I did."

  "Y-You w-w-would?"

  "Course." Richie paused, fixing Bill with a wary eye, trying to decide if Bill was really over it. He was still wiping his red eyes with his snotrag, but Richie decided he probably was. "All I meant was that I don't know why George would want to haunt you. So maybe the picture's got something to do with ... well, with that other. The clown."

  "Muh-Muh-Maybe G-G-George d-d-doesn't nuh-nuh-know. Maybe h-he th-thinks--"

  Richie understood what Bill was trying to say and waved it aside. "After you croak you know everything people ever thought about you, Big Bill." He spoke with the indulgent air of a great teacher correcting a country bumpkin's fatuous ideas. "It's in the Bible. It says, 'Yea, even though we can't see too much in the mirror right now, we will see through it like it was a window after we die.' That's in First Thessalonians or Second Babylonians, I forget which. It means--"

  "I suh-suh-see what it m-m-means," Bill said.

  "So what do you say?"

  "Huh?"

  "Let's go up to his room and take a look. Maybe we'll get a clue about who's killing all the kids."

  "I'm s-s-scared to."

  "I am too," Richie said, thinking it was just more sand, something to say that would get Bill moving, and then something heavy turned over in his midsection and he discovered it was true: he was scared green.

  4

  The two boys slipped into the Denbrough house like ghosts.

  Bill's father was still at work. Sharon Denbrough was in the kitchen, reading a paperback at the kitchen table. The smell of supper--codfish--drifted out into the front hall. Richie called home so his mom would know he wasn't dead, just at Bill's.

  "Someone there?" Mrs. Denbrough called as Richie put the phone down. They froze, eyeing each other guiltily. Then Bill called: "M-Me, Mom. And R-R-R-R-R--"

  "Richie Tozier, ma'am," Richie yelled.

  "Hello, Richie," Mrs. Denbrough called back, her voice disconnected, almost not there at all. "Would you like to stay for supper?"

  "Thanks, ma'am, but my mom's gonna pick me up in half an hour or so."

  "Tell her I said hello, won't you?"

  "Yes ma'am, I sure will."

  "C-Come on," Bill whispered. "That's enough s-small talk."

  They went upstairs and down the hall to Bill's room. It was boy-neat, which meant it would have given the mother of the boy in question only a mild headache to look at. The shelves were stuffed with a helter-skelter collection of books and comics. There were more comics, plus a few models and toys and a stack of 45s, on the desk. There was also an old Underwood office model typewriter on it. His folks had given it to him for Christmas two years ago, and Bill sometimes wrote stories on it. He did this a bit more frequently since George's death. The pretending seemed to ease his mind.

  There was a phonograph on the floor across from the bed with a pile of folded clothes stacked on the lid. Bill put the clothes in the drawers of his bureau and then took the records from the desk. He shuffled through them, picking half a dozen. He put them on the phonograph's fat spindle and turned the machine on. The Fleetwoods started singing "Come Softly Darling."

  Richie held his nose.

  Bill grinned in spite of his thumping heart. "T'h-They d-don't luh-luh-hike rock and r-roll," he said. "They g-gave me this wuh-one for my b-b-birthday. Also two P-Pat B-B-Boone records and Tuh-Tuh-Tommy Sands. I keep L-L-Little Ruh-Richard and Scuh-hreamin J-Jay Hawkins for when they're not h-here. But if she hears the m-m-music she'll th-think we're i-in m-my room. C-C-Come o-on."

  George's room was across the hall. The door was shut. Richie looked at it and licked his lips.

  "They don't keep it locked?" he whispered to Bill. Suddenly he found himself hoping it was locked. Suddenly he was having trouble believing this had been his idea.

  Bill, his face pale, shook his head and turned the knob. He stepped in and looked back at Richie. After a moment Richie followed. Bill shut the door behind them, muffling the Fleetwoods. Richie jumped a little at the soft snick of the latch.

  He looked around, fearful and intensely curious at the same time. The first thing he noticed was the dry mustiness of the air--No one's opened a window in here for a long time, he thought. Heck, no one's breathed in here for a long time. That's really what it feels like. He shuddered a little at the thought and licked his lips again.

  His eye fell on George's bed, and he thought of George sleeping now under a comforter of earth in Mount Hope Cemetery. Rotting there. His hands not folded because you needed two hands to do the old folding routine, and George had been buried with only one.

  A little sound escaped Richie's throat. Bill turned and looked at him enquiringly.

  "You're right," Richie said huskily. "It's spooky in here. I don't see how you could stand to come in alone."

  "H-He was my bruh-brother," Bill said simply. "Sometimes I w-w-want to, is a-all."

  There were posters on the walls--little-kid posters. One showed Tom Terrific, the cartoon character on Captain Kangaroo's program. Tom was springing over the head and clutching hands of Crabby Appleton, who was, of course, Rotten to the Core. Another showed Donald Duck's nephews, Huey, Louie, and Dewie, marching off into the wilderness in their Junior Woodchucks coonskin caps. A third, which George had colored himself, showed Mr. Do holding up traffic so a bunch of little kids headed for school could cross the street. MR. DO SAYS WAIT FOR THE CROSSING GUARD!, it said underneath.

  Kid wasn't too cool about staying in the lines, Richie thought, and then shuddered. The kid was never going to get any better at it, either. Richie looked at the table by the window. Mrs. Denbrough had stood up all of George's rank-cards there, half-open. Looking at them, knowing there would never be more, knowing that George had died before he could stay in the lines when he colored, knowing his life had ended irrevocably and eternally with only those few kindergarten and first-grade rank-cards, all the idiot truth of death crashed home to Richie for the first time. It was as if a large iron safe had fallen into his brain and buried itself there. I could die! his mind screamed at him suddenly in tones of betrayed horror. Anybody could! Anybody could!

  "Boy oh boy," he said in a shaky voice. He could manage no more.

  "Yeah," Bill said in a near-whisper. He sat down on George's bed. "Look."

  Richie followed Bill's pointing finger and saw the photo album lying closed on the floor. MY PHOTOGRAPHS, Richie read. GEORGE ELMER DENBROUGH, AGE 6.

  Age 6! his mind shrieked in those same tones of shrill betrayal. Age 6 forever! Anybody could! Shit! Fucking anybody!

  "It was oh-oh-open," Bill said. "B-Before."

  "So it closed," Richie said uneasily. He sat down on the bed beside Bill and looked at the photo album. "Lots of books close on their own."

  "The p-p-pages, maybe, but n-not the cuh-cuh-cover. It c-closed itself." He looked at Richie solemnly, his eyes very dark in his pale, tired face. "B-But it wuh-wuh-wants y-you to oh-open it up again. That's what I th-think."

  Richie got up and walked slowly over to the photograph album. It lay at the base of a window screened with light curtains. Looking out, he could see the apple tree in the Denbrough back yard. A swing rocked slowly back and forth from one gnarled, black limb.

  He looked down at George's book again.

  A dried ma
roon stain colored the thickness of the pages in the middle of the book. It could have been old ketchup. Sure; it was easy enough to see George looking at his photo album while eating a hot dog or a big sloppy hamburger; he takes a big bite and some ketchup squirts out onto the book. Little kids were always doing spasmoid stuff like that. It could be ketchup. But Richie knew it was not.

  He touched the album briefly and then drew his hand away. It felt cold. It had been lying in a place where the strong summer sunlight, only slightly filtered by those light curtains, would have been falling on it all day, but it felt cold.

  Well, I'll just leave it alone, Richie thought. I don't want to look in his stupid old album anyway, see a lot of people I don't know. I think maybe I'll tell Bill I changed my mind, and we can go to his room and read comic books for awhile and then I'll go home and eat supper and go to bed early because I'm pretty tired, and when I wake up tomorrow morning I'm sure I'll be sure that stuff was just ketchup. That's just what I'll do. Yowza.

  So he opened the album with hands that seemed a thousand miles away from him, at the end of long plastic arms, and he looked at the faces and places in George's album, the aunts, the uncles, the babies, the houses, the old Fords and Studebakers, the telephone lines, the mailboxes, the picket fences, the wheelruts with muddy water in them, the Ferris wheel at the Esty County Fair, the Standpipe, the ruins of the Kitchener Ironworks--

  His fingers flipped faster and faster and suddenly the pages were blank. He turned back, not wanting to but unable to help himself. Here was a picture of downtown Derry, Main Street and Canal Street from around 1930, and beyond it there was nothing.

  "There's no school picture of George in here," Richie said. He looked at Bill with a mixture of relief and exasperation. "What kind of line were you handing me, Big Bill?"

  "W-W-What?"

  "This picture of downtown in the olden days is the last one in the book. All the rest of the pages are blank."

  Bill got off the bed and joined Richie. He looked at the picture of downtown Derry as it had been almost thirty years ago, oldfashioned cars and trucks, oldfashioned streetlights with clusters of globes like big white grapes, pedestrians by the Canal caught in mid-stride by the click of a shutter. He turned the page and, just as Richie had said, there was nothing.