jjane

Even at closing time, when Al’s Diner is wiped clean and the neon sign buzzes itself hoarse, there’s still the hum of something. The fridge. The radio in the back that never quite turns off. Old pipes muttering to themselves like they’re remembering things better forgotten.

And under all that, if you’re quiet—if you listen—you can hear it.

The town breathing.

You stand at the front window with a dish towel in your hands, watching the rain smear Main Street into streaks of silver. It’s late, close to midnight, and the world outside has gone that particular kind of dark that belongs only to small towns and bad dreams.

Your umbrella leans against the doorframe beside you. Black handle, polished wood worn smooth by someone else’s hands long before it ever fit yours. The parrot’s head at the top has one glass eye slightly cloudy, the way old people’s eyes get. It sees more than it lets on.

Your carpetbag sits on a nearby booth, looking far too small for the amount of babysitting supplies you’ve pulled out of it over the years.

“You gonna head out, doll?”

Al’s voice drags you from the window. He’s wiping his hands on his apron, gray hair sticking up from the humidity in tufts that make him look more like a tired rooster than a man.

“Yeah,” you say, folding the towel. “Mrs. Mackie wants me over. Kids won’t sleep again.”

He snorts. “When do they ever? You walkin’?”

You glance outside again. The rain’s picked up, falling in sheets. Main Street is empty in that suspicious way, like it’s not really empty at all—just holding its breath.

“I’ll be fine,” you say lightly. “Storm can’t do much if I ask nicely.”

Al squints at you. He doesn’t know what he knows about you. That’s part of the trick. Grown-ups see what they want to see. It’s always been that way.

Your grandmother used to say it with a smile and a crisp, unyielding tone: Adults are willfully blind. Use that. But don’t you ever forget what’s really there.

You grab your umbrella and carpetbag on your way out. The bell above the door gives a weary jangle as you step into the rain.

The first drops hit the umbrella before you’ve even fully opened it, pattering against the black canopy in a rhythm that makes something old and deep in your chest hum back.

“Up we go,” you murmur.

You don’t leap. That would be too dramatic for Derry, Maine. You simply…step.

The wind takes the hint.

It catches the umbrella, a strong, sudden gust that shouldn’t exist on a night like this, and lifts. The pavement drops away in a blur of wet asphalt and puddles reflecting neon. Your feet leave the ground, shoes dangling inches, then a foot, then several above the sidewalk as the town shrinks into a miniature of itself.

Derry would call it a draft. A trick of the storm. That’s how it survives—by explaining away the impossible until it chokes on its own lies.

You float along the street, skirt fluttering around your knees, fingers wrapped tight around the umbrella’s handle. The rain seems to bend around you, slipping off some invisible curve, barely misting your cheeks.

Below, the town slides past: the hardware store, closed and dark; the drugstore with its flickering sign; the movie theater advertising a double feature you’d meant to see and never got around to.

Something red moves in the corner of your eye.

For a second, your heart stutters. Balloon, your thoughts whisper, and there’s a jump in your pulse that feels like the beginning of a song you don’t want to hear.

You look down.

Nothing. Just the watery shine of car hoods and streetlamps smudged by weather.

You shake it off and let the umbrella tilt you around the corner, toward the neighborhood where the Mackies live. Houses cluster close together there, porches sagging from years of snow and rain, lights glowing in a few windows like islands in a dark sea.

You land on the sidewalk as lightly as if you’d stepped off a bus, heels clicking once against the wet concrete. The wind dies the moment your feet touch the ground.

You close the umbrella. No one looks out. No one ever does.

Mrs. Mackie’s house smells like casserole, cigarette smoke, and the vague, chalk-dust scent of fear. The kind of fear people don’t name because that would make it real.

“Thank you for coming, dear,” she fusses, slipping on her coat. “They’ve just been…well, you know how children are. Imagination.”

You do know how children are. You also know when it’s not imagination.

“I’ll have them in bed by the time you get back,” you promise.

She squeezes your arm, eyes lingering on your umbrella. “I don’t know how you do it. They listen to you.”

You smile. “All it takes is the right tone.”

Your grandmother Mary had said the same thing once, standing in front of a London nursery with soot in her hair and magic in her pockets. The world is wild underneath their beds, darling. You tame it with voice, not volume.

The Mackie kids—Tommy and June—are waiting in the living room. Cartoons murmur from the television, but neither of them are watching. June is chewing her thumbnail down to nothing. Tommy keeps glancing at the dark hallway like he’s expecting something to come out of it.

“Hey,” you say, setting your carpetbag down. “What’s all this, then?”

June’s lip trembles. “He was at the drain again.”

You go still.

Your voice stays light. “Who?”

Tommy shoots his sister a warning look. She stares at you, eyes too big, too old. “The clown.”

There it is. The word that has been turning up more and more in Derry lately. Scribbled on school notebooks, whispered at the diner booths, floating down Main Street like a bad joke no one remembers telling.

Clown.

“It’s just been a long day,” you say, kneeling so you’re eye-level. “Storms make shadows, you know that. They stretch everything out, make it look wrong. Shadows can’t hurt you, darling.”

June leans in, whispers: “He smiled.”

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

Of all the things you inherited from your grandmother—the umbrella, the bag, the way the world shifts subtly when you snap your fingers—that sense of wrongness is the one you trust the most.

Shadows flick and moan outside as the wind throws rain at the windows. The town is louder tonight. Restless.

“All right,” you say briskly. “Bedtime.”

Predictably, there are protests. But you’ve dealt with far worse than two stubborn children. You use the voice—that firm, precisely measured tone that brooks no argument. It slides through the air like a command sewn with invisible thread, and the world tugs obediently.

Teeth get brushed without a fuss. Pajamas are put on. You smooth the blankets over bony shoulders and tuck June’s stuffed rabbit under her arm.

When you hum, very softly, the light in the hallway steadies. The creak in the floorboard quiets. The draft under the door seals away with a soft, invisible click.

Small things. Subtle things. The kind of things that make a room feel safe.

“That’s magic,” your grandmother had said once, snapping an umbrella shut against a clear sky. Not fireworks. Not spectacle. Safety. The world behaving when it wants to misbehave.

You kiss June’s forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

Tommy catches your wrist when you straighten. “You’ll stay?”

You look at him. At the child who has seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. Derry is full of kids like that.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “If any nasty old clowns show up, they’ll have to go through me, won’t they?”

Tommy manages a tiny, brave smile. “You’re not scared.”

You lie without hesitation. “Not even a little.”

The rain eases close to one in the morning. With the children asleep, the house settles into the uneasy quiet of a place that’s trying not to listen to its own walls.

You make tea in the kitchen. The kettle had been empty; you filled it from the tap and gave it a little nudge with your fingers. Steam curls from the spout almost instantly, no flame needed. The water roils, obedient to your will and nothing else.

You pour, you sip, you try not to think about storm drains and smiles.

Outside, the street is slick and black, streetlamps casting halos in the damp air. The drains hum faintly, water whispering down into dark places.

You tell yourself you’re just checking on the weather when you open the front door.

The night that meets you is cooler, cleaner. The rain has washed Derry’s face, but not its eyes. The town watches you as you step onto the porch.

You shouldn’t wander. You’re supposed to stay inside, keep watch like all good caretakers do.

But the humming under your skin has been building since you left the diner, a strange pressure that feels like being drawn to the edge of a very high roof and wanting—just for a second—to see what would happen if you leaned too far.

Your umbrella opens with a soft whump of fabric.

You don’t call the wind this time. You just walk.

It’s quieter now. Not silent—Derry could never be that—but quiet enough that you can hear your own footsteps and the drip of water from softened gutters.

You pass one storm drain.

Another.

The third one waits at the corner, right where the curb dips. Water glugs into it, carrying leaves and cigarette butts and the small, soggy debris of human life.

You feel him before you see him.

A pressure against your mind, like someone leaning over your shoulder and breathing in. A cold fingertip running down your spine from the inside.

“Now that’s interesting,” a voice purrs.

You don’t jump. You were raised better than that.

You turn your head very slowly.

He’s standing beside the drain, half in shadow, half in the jaundiced glow of the streetlamp. White greasepaint, red lines curling up the planes of his face like someone carved a smile into him and then changed their mind halfway through. Yellow eyes that aren’t quite human and not nearly clown enough.

You knew he’d look wrong. You weren’t prepared for how old he feels.

“You’re out late,” you say, because manners matter, even here.

His smile widens, stretching without moving his lips. It’s an unsettling thing, like the world around his mouth had decided to smile independently.

“So are you, little nanny bird.” His gaze drifts over the umbrella, the bag, the hem of your rain-speckled skirt. “Floating down the streets like you own them. That’s rude. This is my town.”

You tighten your grip on the umbrella. “You’ve been upsetting my children.”

He giggles.

It’s a high, bright sound that goes on too long, like a balloon squealing as it leaks.

“Your children,” he repeats, delighted. “Oh, I like that. You think they’re yours. I’ve tasted this town since it was just mud and screaming. Long before you and your little rain tricks.”

You’ve faced monsters before. Not like this, not this, but shadows under beds and things in closets, nightmares you could draw a curtain over with a firm voice and a snapped command.

He is not a nightmare. Nightmares end when you wake up.

“You scared June Mackie,” you say evenly. “She’s six.”

“That one’s mind is very soft,” he sighs, almost indulgent. “Like marshmallow.” His gaze sharpens. “She smells of you now. You’ve wrapped her up in your tidiness. It spoils the flavor.”

Your heart pounds, once, hard.

He can smell you on them. That’s not good. That’s not good at all.

Your grandmother had warned you about that too, in the kind of voice she only used once in her life. There are things that do not like order. Things older than me and my umbrella. If you ever feel one look at you and see you…

“What do you want?” you ask.

His eyes gleam.

“Curious bird,” he says. “You’re not from here. Not really. You smell like chimney smoke and soot and nursery rhymes…from somewhere else. Somewhere other.” His tongue darts out, pink and quick, as if tasting the air between you. “You don’t belong in this little rotten place, and yet…” He tilts his head. “Here you are. Singing your soft songs. Stroking their pretty little heads. Spoiling my feast.”

“You’re not going to touch them,” you say quietly.

There is a moment—a real, solid moment—where the air presses down on you so hard your knees threaten to buckle.

His smile disappears. Not softens, not fades. Just gone. What’s left behind is something vast and empty and hungry peering out of a painted face.

“And what,” he says, voice flat, “is stopping me?”

Fear curls in your stomach, sharp and cold.

You lift your chin anyway. “I am.”

He moves.

One second he’s by the drain; the next he’s in front of you, so close you can see the tiny cracks in his white makeup, the way the red on his nose has been painted over and over again like someone trying too hard.

His gloved hand closes over the umbrella’s handle, right above yours.

Heat and ice lance through you at once. Not physical temperature—something else. Two forces rubbing against each other, the friction lighting sparks.

“You don’t smell like fear,” he murmurs, leaning in, nose nearly brushing yours. “You have it. Oh, you have it in such delicious layers. Old fears. New ones. Afraid of falling. Afraid of failing. Afraid of being the last one holding the line when everything else breaks.” His eyes flare, bright as lamp light underwater. “But it’s not on the surface. You keep it tucked away. Buttoned up. That is…annoying.”

Your voice feels like it’s coming from far away. “I’m very practiced at being inconvenient.”

Something like laughter huffs out of him.

“I could peel you,” he says conversationally. “Strip all that neatness off. See what screams underneath.”

The wind gusts. The umbrella strains between your hands and his.

You think of your grandmother, standing on a gray London street with her own monster looming over her. You’d never seen it, but you’d seen the way her jaw set when she said, We do not run from the dark, darling. We teach it manners.

So you smile.

It’s small and sharp and not entirely human.

“You could,” you agree. “But then who would keep your food so tender and frightened for you? You startle them too early, they harden. They stop believing. Stop being sweet.” You tilt your head, mirroring his earlier gesture. “You’ve been here a long time. You know how this works. Something like you doesn’t survive without a little…help.”

His eyes narrow.

For a moment, everything holds its breath—Derry, the drain, the sky.

Then he throws his head back and howls with laughter.

The sound tears through the street, echoes off houses, rattles the glass in nearby windows. Somewhere, a dog starts barking frantically.

“Oh, nanny bird,” he cackles. “Oh, clever little thing you are.” His hand relaxes on the umbrella handle, fingers stroking the worn wood as if it’s a living creature he’s trying to charm. “You think you can negotiate with me?”

“I think you don’t want to break your toys,” you say. “Not all at once.”

He leans in again, nose wrinkling, eyes searching your face like he’s determined to find the seam that will make you come apart.

“You’re interesting,” he says finally, almost grudging. “It’s been a long time since something new crawled into my web.” His voice drops, thick as tar. “You stay, nanny. You stay in my little town, with your umbrella and your songs and your soft hands. You keep them scared for me. Tender. I’ll…consider taking my time.”

“And if I don’t?” you ask.

His smile comes back, slow and wide.

“Then I’ll eat you first.”

The words slide inside you like a blade made of ice and honey.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can taste metal, but your voice remains steady. “Not very polite.”

He tuts. “I’m not Mary,” he says, mocking. “I don’t do polite.”

Your fingers spasm on the handle. “You know her.”

“Everyone knows her,” he croons. “Little storm in a skirt, skipping across the world, tidying up. She smelled like thunder. You smell like her…after the lightning’s gone.” His eyes gleam, cruel and curious. “Did she tell you about me?”

“She told me there are things under the world that you don’t feed,” you say. “You starve them.”

He grins, delighted. “Oh, I like her. Pity she’s not here.” His tongue flickers again. “But you are. And we’re going to have such fun, you and I.”

He lets go of the umbrella.

You stumble back a step as the pressure snaps, dizzy like you’ve just been underwater too long and come up too fast.

When you blink, he’s gone.

Only the drain remains, water whispering down into the dark.

A single red balloon bobs up from its throat.

It rises sluggishly, string trailing, latex gleaming wetly in the streetlamp glow. It shouldn’t be able to float; it looks heavy, weighted with something that isn’t air.

You stare at it.

The balloon drifts toward you. Slow. Patient.

You don’t move until it bumps against your umbrella with a soft, rubbery squeak.

“Absolutely not,” you say.

You twirl the umbrella.

The motion is practiced, precise. The world around its spinning canopy blurs. The rain hesitates. The balloon’s reflection stretches like taffy in a puddle at your feet.

With a quiet pop that doesn’t sound entirely like bursting rubber, the balloon vanishes—no shreds, no trace. Just the faint smell of metal and carnival dust.

The street exhales.

You take a breath that feels like a first after drowning.

Then you turn on your heel and walk back to the Mackie house, umbrella folded neatly at your side, knees shaking under your skirt.

Later, when Mrs. Mackie has returned and pressed a few rumpled bills into your hand with grateful eyes; when you’ve floated yourself home on a wind that tastes faintly of sewer rust and old laughter; when you’ve climbed the narrow stairs to your cramped little apartment above the diner—you put your carpetbag on the kitchen table and just look at it.

The bag looks back. Somehow.

You unclasp it.

The mouth opens wider than its frame should allow. Inside: the familiar jumble of impossible space. Tea tins that never empty. A folded coat that once belonged to your grandmother and still smells like her perfume. A snow globe with no snow, only swirling smoke.

And, sitting right on top of everything like it belongs there, is a paper boat.

You stare at it for a long moment.

The paper is damp but not ruined, edges curled as if it’s been floating for a while. Along the side, in shaky, childish letters, a name is written.

You don’t read it.

You don’t have to. You know what name it would be. Names echo in Derry. They never really leave.

Your fingers hover above it, trembling.

In the end, you don’t throw it away.

You pick it up carefully and set it on your kitchen windowsill, where the rain-streaked glass turns the town outside into a blurred painting of itself.

The boat sits there, a tiny white shape against the dark.

In its folded creases, you can almost feel him. Watching. Waiting. Amused.

“Fine,” you say softly, to the town, to the drain, to the thing that wears a clown’s face and calls you nanny bird. “We’ll play.”

Outside, somewhere in the deep, wet bones of Derry, something laughs.

You straighten your shoulders, close the bag, and hang your umbrella by the door.

Tomorrow, there will be children to wake and feed and ferry to school. There will be shifts at the diner and gossip to overhear and shadows to tidy away. There will be storm drains on every corner.

And somewhere beneath it all—a monster with yellow eyes and a hunger older than your grandmother’s songs.

He thinks the game is his.

You intend to teach him otherwise.

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