*Transes Your Gender*

Ever since the sewers, Eddie’s been sick.

“He looks worse every time we stop by,” Stan tells Richie.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s sick,” Richie argues for the two-hundredth time. “Or maybe, maybe if he is sick, she’s making him sick. I’ve seen that kind of shit on the news. Munchinhouse or something like that.”

“Maybe, Rich. But we can’t just go jumping down his throat over it. We’re going to push him away more than anything. This is a delicate situation.”

“He’s not delicate.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Buh-both of you, stuh-stop,” Bill intrudes. As he stutters, his fingers slip trying to light his cigarette in the breeze. He stops on the sidewalk, cupping his hand over the flame of his match just before it blows out.

Frustrated, Richie expertly uses his Bic to light it before taking care of his own. Before he goes to light Stan’s, Bill gently swipes it away.

“The-the-three on a muh-muh-match,” he says. “Buh-bad luh-luh-luck.”

“It’s a lighter, not a match.”

“Nuh-not risking it.”

“I still want my damn cigarette,” Stan grunts, snatching the Bic from Richie’s hands. He cups the Winston jutted between his teeth, lighting the cherry at the end.

Recent times have gotten some of the other Losers to share in Richie’s deadly vice. The nicotine seemed to calm Bill’s nerves. Richie suspects Stan only started smoking to piss off his father. As Richie exhales his smoke, he silently wonders what Eddie would have to say about two more of his friends sucking on those “cancer sticks.”

Stan is one of the few of them who is adamant that Eddie is ill. He reasons that Eddie’s behavior wouldn’t have changed so drastically had he not been suffering something grave. Richie, however, just doesn’t buy it. The timing of when this all started is too coincidental. He’s come to the conclusion that either Sonia is feeding Eddie poison, or she’s gone off the deep end with her brainwashing.

The only few times any of them have seen Eddie over the last few months was to bring him homework. Even then, it was usually just a glimpse of him sprawled on the couch just before Sonia slammed the door in their faces. From what they could notice, he was pale and weak, struggling to maintain any composure.

After failing to attend the final exams of his sophomore year, Eddie was left behind in Stan’s grade now. Whatever is happening at home is proving to be serious.

Sonia won’t even answer the phone as of recent; the house has seemed dead for a week.

“You don’t think she ran off with him, do you?”

“Shut the fuck up, Stan.”

“It’s plausible; that’s all I’m saying. If he’s sick with something serious, she may have had to take him to see a specialist.”

If that bitch did take Eddie away, she’s dead.

By now, the other Losers have figured out that Richie is sick, too. Lovesick and absolutely hopeless.

Over the time of Eddie’s slow descent, he began making disparaging remarks towards Richie. Not the usual, flippant retaliations to Richie’s banter. Instead, it was slow hints of his disgust over what Richie might be. It started off with comments of sickness, of disease, comments about the ever so damning them. The big Them that Richie was a part of, who Eddie began speaking not so flatteringly of. Things quite like his mother would say, now coming out of Eddie’s own mouth.

It was manageable, something Richie could handle. Until that day.

Not too long ago, they had gathered around for a group call and overheard Eddie snap at Richie, calling him what Richie feared Eddie saying for years.

“Stop bothering me while I’m sick, you filthy faggot!”

Eddie’s said some unintentionally cruel things before out of pure naivety, but this one hurt. The phone slipped out of Richie’s hand as he began to actually cry. As if it wasn’t embarrassing enough to be called out as a queer around all of his other friends. By the way the others all assured him they saw him no differently, it was clear that his dirty little secret was out.

Still, none of them could explain or even fathom how their friend, their sweet albeit feisty Eddie, could have said something that was so abrupt and revolting.

“He probably didn’t mean it,” Stan had assured him, trying to find a logical explanation without damning Eddie too much. “It’s probably his reaction to a bad fever.”

“It could be his mom,” Mike offered. “If she was near him, he might want to put on a show for her, maybe?”

“Thuh-this suh-seems like suh-something else,” Bill said quietly.

Bill shared his confusion with the others about how, just the day before, he had caught Eddie in an uncharacteristically honest mood. Sonia had been out at the shop, likely giving Eddie the freedom to speak to Bill sincerely over the phone. Eddie had explained to Bill that he tried to hide his deteriorating condition from them all, fearing their reactions and the inevitable danger he posed to them.

He went on to share that he had been experiencing nightmares and hallucinations ever since their battle with Pennywise.

“We’re all huh-having nuh-nightmares, Eddie,” Bill had offered. He couldn’t buy that Eddie Kaspbrak, the boy obsessed with cars and trains, who still said words like apple-solutely, who used to follow Bill around like a little duckling, posed any sort of threat or danger to the Losers.

“Not like this,” Eddie had said, a menacing darkness laced into his voice. He told Bill that something had taken root deep inside him.

Mike delved into research, seeking answers in forgotten and ancient texts. He had hunted for any clue that might aid them in understanding Eddie's condition. Nothing pointed to anything from It’s history. Something must have changed in Sonia’s already strict parenting from the moment Eddie came home that morning, covered in the Leper’s vomit.

Ben and Bill sided with Mike, thinking that Eddie was experiencing some extreme sort of supernatural PTSD. Something went understandably wrong with him after that summer, as it did with them all. He was likely just more sensitive to the effects. Meanwhile, Stan remained adamant that Eddie was sick with something, that his sudden stop of taking his pills and inhaler could have had detrimental effects. Richie thought otherwise.

“It has to be Sonia. He’s never been sick. His medicine wasn’t real.”

Though she did so more quietly, Bev supported Richie’s argument. But nothing quite explained the way Eddie had snapped at Richie. It didn’t make any sense. It only got worse as Eddie began to lash out at all the Losers, no matter who would call, spitting out the most vile things they could imagine. Once Bill got an earful, Richie was certain it was something more than the medications. Eddie never spoke to Big Bill like that. Sonia was likely wearing on him mentally, doing some sick psychological workup on him while he spent all this time in the house.

Richie hadn’t spoken directly to Eddie since the incident at the start of the school term. He had once thought Eddie calling him braceface was the worst thing in the world. Now he genuinely feels like Eddie is disgusted in him.

If Sonia is manipulating him in some way, they’ll have to put a stop to it.

The Losers Club couldn't ignore the signs any longer. Eddie's deteriorating condition, combined with his sudden outbursts and strained interactions, painted a bleak picture. Richie's heart ached with each passing day, torn between his love for Eddie and the fear that his friend might be lost forever.

Determined to uncover the truth and put an end to Sonia's influence, the Losers devised a simple plan. They would confront Eddie directly, away from the eyes and potential manipulation of his mother. Trying to sneak him out hadn’t worked in the recent past, so they were willing to fight against Sonia’s wrath and drag Eddie out of the house themselves. It was a risky move, but they knew they had to try.

It’s nearing Halloween; a cold, cloudy twilight in the final days of October.

In just over a week, Eddie will be the first of them to turn seventeen.

They can’t wait another year for Eddie to become an adult and pry him from his mother’s grip.

Deep down, Richie worries that it may already be too late.

A shiver shakes Richie from head to toe, tingling with anticipation. His nerves feel like live wires under his skin. He can’t remember the last time he felt so anxious. Even his cigarette doesn’t help. Part of him wonders if he doesn’t want to know the truth.

The three of them put out their cigarettes before walking through the front lawn. Carefully, Richie approaches the front door of the Kaspbrak household and knocks, Stan and Bill standing just behind him. There’s no light coming through any of the windows, the house seeming lifeless and abandoned.

The seconds stretch into an agonizing silence before the door unlocks. To all of their surprise, the door creaks open, revealing just part of Eddie's pale face. His eyes are hollow, lacking the spark of life they once held. The interior of the house behind him is pure darkness, covering him in shadow. He doesn’t even turn the porch light on.

"Eddie," Stan sighs, relieved that it isn’t Sonia to answer. "We need to talk. We're worried about you."

Eddie's gaze flickers between the three Losers, confusion evident in his expression. "What... What are you doing here?"

"We know something's wrong, Eddie," Richie says, his voice gentle but firm. "We can't stand by and watch you suffer. We're here to help."

Eddie hesitates, suspicion clouding his features. "You can't help me. No one can."

It’s direct. Not an ounce of denial that something is wrong. Richie takes a step forward, his heart pounding in his ears. "We're your friends, Eddie. We've been through hell and back. We won't abandon you now, no matter what."

For a moment, Eddie's defensive posture falters. "It’s too late. It’s already done."

“Wuh-what’s done, Eddie?” Bill asks hesitantly.

They collectively gasp as the door swings wide open. Eddie steps aside, his figure hidden behind the door as he peers at them from behind. Only his gaunt eyes are visible under his dark fringe.

Despite the feeling of dread in his stomach, Richie tentatively steps inside with the others. All the lights are off, and it almost goes completely black after Eddie closes the door behind them.

“Is your mom not home?” Richie asks, because why would Eddie so readily let them in otherwise. He turns and sees Eddie, slight frame barely visible in the darkness.

“What’s that smell?” Stan says quietly. There’s a slight quake in his voice. “Is there rust in your pipes or something?”

It hits Richie then, an awful, metallic odor. It makes him want to retch, but he swallows it down and breathes through his mouth. It brings him back to Neibolt, to the sewers. The foul stench that had overwhelmed him when the bodies of missing children sunk down from where they were floating in the cistern.

A bright light startles him, but he realizes quickly that Bill had pulled out his flashlight. It illuminates the spot where Richie and Stan are standing, before Bill aims it across from them, towards the stairs.

“Is yuh-your mom sleeping?” he asks. His voice is strained, like he’s trying not to breathe.

“You could say that,” Eddie replies in a sing-song tone.

“What do you mean, Eds?” Richie turns, following Bill’s flashlight as it shines over Eddie.

Richie recoils at the sight of what appears to be vomit on Eddie’s front. A large blotch stains the collar of his white t-shirt, splattering down his torso. It looks as if he did a rough job of trying to clean off his neck and chin, leaving traces behind. Like he just took a dry towel and wiped at it once before opening the door to let them in.

“Christ, Eds, do you need a doctor–?”

Richie is stopped from approaching Eddie, Stan’s grip suddenly on his wrist. It’s twisted so harshly that Richie can feel Stan’s fingers bruising his skin. Briefly, Richie wonders if Stan is trying to stop Richie from triggering Eddie, by suggesting a doctor just like Sonia would.

Then he sees Stanley’s face. His pupils are so blown out that there’s just a thin green ring of his irises. He’s stiff as a board, breathing shallow. Bill, on the other hand, looks just as confused as Richie feels. After all, wasn’t it Stan who suggested Eddie was actually sick?

“Eddie… what did you do?” Stan says breathlessly.

“He’s clearly having a rough day,” Richie scoffs, trying in vain to relinquish his wrist from Stan’s tight grasp. “I’d throw up, too, if I had to eat all of Sonia’s cooking every day.”

“That’s not vomit, is it, Eddie?”

The implications make Richie nearly heave again, though he’s not sure why. Not at first.

Then that metallic smell catches Richie’s attention.

Instinctively, his lips part, inhaling solely through his mouth. He turns back to where Bill is shining his now shaking light at Eddie.

Still standing there.

Smiling.

It starts off as a small simper, the corners of his lips ever so slightly turned up. There’s just the subtle glint of his teeth as his face stretches into a grin.

The redness of the copper stains on his shirt becomes more noticeable. More sinister. The room feels cold. A shiver runs through Richie’s spine as if ice is dripping down his back. Stan doesn’t relinquish his grip, and Richie doesn’t want him to.

Something is terribly, terribly wrong with Eddie. Something that Richie suddenly doesn’t want to see anymore.

A sharp inhale of breath makes the three intruders collectively jump. Eddie’s head rocks back and forward as he seems to be catching his breath, something that looks like an all too familiar asthma attack. It briefly sparks back that initial concern, that instinct to rush forward and make sure Eddie is alright. That concern doesn’t burden him long.

Not when Eddie throws his head far back with an ear-splitting cackle.

The sound of his guffawing swells in the air around them, echoing against the plain wallpapered walls of the dark house. It makes Richie’s skin crawl, goosebumps prickling against the inside of his flannel sleeve. There is a good amount of blood stained on Eddie’s clothes and wiped from his face, and here he is just hee-hawing, knee-slapping, finding this absurdly ludicrous. Some sort of in-joke only he’s involved in, the rest of them as unwilling participants to this sudden madness.

The Bad Break comes to mind. The recollection Eddie told them all of how he laughed in Henry’s face as Henry broke his arm right there on the sidewalk, rolling around in hysterics. He had said Henry seemed scared. What was it that Henry could find so terrifying?

Richie understands now. He’s sure as hell scared. He doesn’t know if he’s more scared for himself or for Eddie, but he’s scared alright. Scared shitless.

Whatever it may be that he’s so frightened of, it pushes him back a step or two, because he doesn’t want to be near whatever this is in front of him. Stan does not waver in his grip on Richie’s wrist, simply stumbling back along with him.

The sole of Richie’s shoe catches on something, probably the edge of Sonia’s ugly living room rug. He staggers clumsily back, finally ripping himself away from the safety of Stan’s grasp. Struggling, flailing helplessly for something to grab hold of, Richie falls back with a pathetic squeak of a sound.

Whatever catches his fall near the floor is not as harsh as the floor. It’s strangely cold and awkward shaped, Richie’s ass pressing into a bit that's somewhat soft that squelches under his weight. The thing is certainly solid and static, but he scrambles away from it as if it’s a dangerous animal that he’s disturbed.

As he gets to his feet, Richie is momentarily blinded by Bill’s flashlight, shining down at the object Richie just stumbled into. Briefly ignoring the giggling lunatic that was once Eddie, Richie follows the light, immediately regretting it.

There’s no stopping the vomit now. The sting of the acid hits the back of his tongue, before Richie turns and spews his school lunch onto the Kaspbrak’s carpet. He’s staring down into darkness, but the image of Sonia’s body is burned into his brain.

Sprawled just in front of the La-Z-Boy she spent most of her time sat in, those same stains from Eddie’s shirt and skin splattered along her face and left thigh. Chunks were missing, the white of her bone bright even under Bill’s dull light.

“Jesus fuck,” Bill gasps from somewhere above Richie’s head while he’s still keeled over his knees. “Eddie, what the fuck.”

“That is not sleeping,” Stan says matter-of-factly.

Richie finally straightens himself up, daring to express a feeling deep down that he’s more terrified for Eddie than he is of the body behind him. Because as often as Richie has imagined her dead, he always knew it would break Eddie apart. Not throw him into a fit of laughter.

“Eds?” he croaks.

“Richie?”

All the howling laughter echoing around them has stopped. All the silence following is loud. Eddie’s voice is now a mere whisper. It sounds pathetic and terrified, igniting all of Richie’s protective instincts once again.

When the light hits Edde’s face again, it’s a completely different person than who answered the door. It’s apparent now that his hair is drenched, skin shining from sweat. The dark circles under his eyes are nearly as black as his hair. He’s standing there, trembling, tears filling those large brown eyes.

“Eddie…” Bill tentatively reaches a hand toward Eddie. “It’s okay. Juh-just take a deep bruh-breath. We’re huh-huh-here. You cuh-can talk to us.”

Eddie’s eyes flicker between the three of them. They finally land on Richie, who feels his chest seize up. Can Eddie sense him there in the dark?

Eyes still locked on his, Eddie lets out a small, breathy plea.

“Oh god. Oh god. Not again!”

Eddie’s body vibrates from head to toe, limbs at his sides. His face scrunches up, hands fisted tightly. 

“Eds, what’s happening?” Richie asks. Because seriously, what the fuck is this?

“It won’t… let me… sleep,” Eddie cries, opening his eyes up at the dark ceiling. “I can’t keep it out of me!”

“Hey, hey, Eddie.” Bill finally throws himself at a desk lamp, giving them a warm, yellow light so he can put his flashlight down. He approaches Eddie then without hesitation, grabs onto his shoulders tightly. “We’re here. We’re all right here. What is it? What’s keeping you from sleeping?”

Richie can barely handle the hysterical, pitiful sobbing elicited from Eddie’s frail frame. Gasping with each breath, he cries again to Bill, “I can’t take it anymore, Bill!” – a deep inhale – “It just wants to eat!” – another gasp – “I can’t sleep anymore.”

Voice breaking, small as a child’s. 

“Does – does this ‘It’ want you to eat your mom?” Stan asks. His face is pale except for some green in his cheeks.

“Who fucking asks that, Stan?!” Richie grunts.

“I didn’t mean to!” Eddie wails. He keeps rocking against Bill’s grip, like he’s trying to fall into Bill’s arms, but something is pulling him back. “I didn’t wanna hurt my mommy, I promise!”

“He fucking ate her!” Stan hisses at Richie, hopefully unable to be heard by Eddie over his crying.

“He’s fucking bonkers,” Richie says. He shakes his head, unable to grasp, unable to fathom what he’s witnessing. “He just – he can’t process whatever happened to her. He’s just blaming himself.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Rich?”

“Eddie,” Bill says soothingly, leaning down to Eddie’s eye level. “We’re going to help you. I promise. Whatever is going on. You’re not alone anymore.”

With one last deep breath, Eddie is deadly silent again. His body goes still, eyes locked on Bill’s with a dull and stoic glare.

“No. I don’t have to be alone.” Eddie suddenly reaches up, grabbing Bill by the ears of all things to hold him still. The pathetic cries are gone, now replaced with a raspy malice. “You can keep us company, Big Bill.”

“Eds–!”

There’s no time for Richie to react as Eddie tries to bite Bill’s face, before Bill is able to throw Eddie off of him. Eddie’s back lands on the bottom of the staircase, but he simply props himself up to his elbows to grin at Bill.

“Not much help to any of your brothers, are ya, Billy boy?” Eddie cackles; the voice almost seems disembodied, far more shrill and grating than his own. Though it’s brief, the momentary insanity wipes away once again in just seconds. His face falls, eyes widening up at Bill. “That’s not true! It’s lying!”

To Richie’s horror, Bill snaps his head towards the two of them, and they stare back in anguish; Bill has no idea what to do. Their leader is at a loss for how to start helping whatever this may be possessing Eddie. He then voices it with a defeated whisper–

“Wuh-what do we do?”

It’s not like the crusader of justice Bill was when he led them to the sewers. It’s not the brave Bill who hunted for his brother's killer. This Bill is showing his grief before they can even consider Eddie dead. 

“What’s the matter, Trashmouth?” That sickly smile is back on Eddie’s face, eyes boring into Richie’s. “Your little crush on Bill is gonna be compromised knowing he’s just a big pussy?” He throws his head back, face twisted as his eyes squeeze shut. He looks pained, face reddening as he appears to look like he’s fighting something forcing its way up his throat, like word vomit. 

“No… No…” It’s an exasperated whine, Eddie shaking his head to throw it off. “Don’t tell him… Please…” He snaps up again, eyes glinting, that simper aimed back at Richie.

“Your little Eddie wuves you soooo much. He has dirty little thoughts about you. Did you know that Trashmouth? How much he loves when you put his hands on him? I bet you’d like that. Getting your hands on him and showing this little faggot how to take a good dicking. Mommy always hated knowing her baby was just a little queer like you.”

The smile twitches, face faltering between that wicked grin and utter devastation. Tears break away, spilling down both of Eddie’s cheeks.

A sharp pain ripples through Richie’s chest, his heart tearing in two. Richie can’t take it. The look – that look – the one Richie has felt on his face so many times. The absolute agony of your dark secrets, out in the vulnerable open.

A lie, he thinks suddenly. It could be a lie.

No. Eddie can’t be that far gone. You can’t fake that look. Eddie is in there somewhere, looking back at Richie with pleading eyes.

If Sonia isn’t doing this to him, they might have hope Eddie can fight this off on his own.

“Bill…” 

The three of them jump. Stan grabs Richie’s arm tightly as they’re all startled by Eddie’s quick movements. As sick as Richie was to see Sonia’s corpse, nothing has really ever compared to the sheer terror of watching Eddie twist his body in such a way; still on the ground, Eddie bends his back, arching up into a bridge, skin of his wrists twisting, joints cracking as he contorts. Another one of those cold laughs cackles out of him before scuttling up the stairs into the darkness in the most unnatural and grotesque image Richie could conjure.

“Oh, shit.”

“Jesus,” Bill gasps. He shakes his head, like he’s trying to rattle out all of his doubts. “We can’t leave him alone like that. Come on.”

“If you think I’m going up there, you’re both fucking crazy!” Stan hisses. “That – That thing is not Eddie!”

“Did you not hear how scared he was, Stan?” Richie feels rage boil in his gut. “Something is wrong, but I’m not leaving him!”

“Both of you, shh!”  

Richie opens his mouth, but Bill slaps a hand over it, gripping the back of his head to seal it shut. He can feel how tense Bill is, all of them listening intently. There’s a scurry, like an animal startled and trying to hide from prey. Some shuffling continues, what sounds like furniture being knocked into until it’s dead silent again.

“That’s not Eddie,” Stan says again, his voice dry. 

“Eddie is here,” Bill says confidently. It offers Richie some relief, seeing the Bill he knows back, and he stifles himself from speaking immediately after Bill releases him from his grip. “Richie is right. I don’t think it’s a trick. He must be…”

“Sick?” Stan offers, grimacing. 

“Richie.” Bill turns to him, a strong grip on Richie’s shoulder. “I’m going to need you to do Eddie a big favor.”

“Obviously I’m gonna go up there, Bill!”

“No. That’s exactly what I don’t want you to do.”

“Excuse me?” Richie sneers, shoving Bill’s hand off. “You can’t be fucking serious right now.”

“We were all there for the phone call, Rich.” Richie feels like someone dropped a block of ice in his stomach, his insides turning. “I can’t imagine how you feel hearing what he just said to you. We should get the others here so you can have a clearer mind before seeing Eddie like… like whatever this is.” His eyes flicker towards Sonia’s corpse for a moment, before settling right back at Richie.

“I’m not leaving him.”

“Of course not. This isn’t leaving him. You’re bringing help, right?”

“Please, Richie,” Stan chimes in. His voice is breathy, shaking.  “We’re going to need everyone else if we’re going to help whatever the fuck is going on with Eddie. We need the lucky seven, like you always say.” 

“You’re going up there, then?”

“Of course I am.” He looks absolutely aghast as he says it, wishing he were anywhere else.

Panic tightens its grip around Richie’s nerves, knowing that every single second is going to count. With a heavy heart, he presses a shaky hand on Stan’s shoulder. “I’ll be back. Please, just… make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“Or us.”

“Or you,” Richie nods, sprinting out of the house.

It’s dark. Richie’s eyes need no adjustment to the blackness of the night now surrounding Derry. As the door slams shut behind him, he has a quick moment of panic when he wonders where to turn. Before coming to a complete halt, he makes the obvious left at the sidewalk, then makes a sharp left down West Broadway. It’s faster, he thinks, to make the right a couple blocks down towards the parks and the clubhouse. 

Beverly had said she was probably going to take a long walk into town when she finished her after-school detention. That’s the best Richie’s got for any of their locations. There isn’t any time to stop and think somewhere, to try and think of the phone numbers to every place he can think to look–

The sight of fiery, red hair!

“BEVERLY!”

She startles in the distance, fumbling with her cigarette before letting it fall to the ground. She’s leaving with a crowd of other kids with baseball bats and mitts, and it briefly makes Richie think of Stan, missing a chance to play at Tracker’s field to check on Eddie. Stan’s probably thinking he might rather be skidding in the dirt than whatever hell he’s going through back at Kaspbrak house.

Beverly stops before Richie gets to her, looking a tad frightened that he’ll just barrel right into her. He manages to barely collide, taking a step back as he catches his breath.

“Richie, what–?!”

“Bev, we need your help,” Richie pants, gripping her shoulders. “I need you to go to Eddie’s. Bill and Stan are there. Eddie – Eddie needs help.”

“Jesus, Rich.” Her voice comes out as a gasp. She presses her hand up against Richie’s chest, gently pushing past him. “I’ll go right now. You’re getting–?”

“Mike and Ben. Where are they?”

“Clubhouse. Go!”

Without looking back, Richie dashes down the road, down past the baseball field. He braces himself before breaking through thickets and bushes, pushing himself around the trees. A shame, he thinks stupidly, that they can’t get a landline into their hideaway in the ground, or at the very least a street lamp out here.

Thankfully, the darkness doesn’t hinder him too long. Mike and Ben appear to be standing outside of the hatch, Ben wearing some ridiculous headlamp that illuminates the area around them. They appear to be contemplative over something until they hear Richie approaching them, quick and clumsily. 

Without any hesitation, Mike runs forward, ready to brace Richie to slow him down. They collide with a dull thump, Mike seemingly ready to hold on to Richie’s weight should he downright collapse. Richie is thankful for the small gesture, but matters are urgent.

“Eddie – You guys gotta come with me to Eddie’s.”

“You three actually went?” Ben asks, aghast. “Did Sonia flip out?”

The image of Sonia’s partially eaten corpse comes back into Richie’s mind, but he’s quick to shake it off. He doesn’t have it in him to puke again.

“We don’t need to worry about her,” Richie says. “You’ll catch on fast, I promise.”

“Do we need–?”

“Nothing, Ben! Mike, c’mon!”

“Rich, hold on!” Mike calls, just as Richie stampedes off again. 

Both follow, despite Richie refusing to answer them, simply shouting over and over to follow. However, Mike manages to grab Richie’s sleeve, pulling him back to stop for just a moment.

“Mike, we have to go!”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“Eddie, obviously!” Richie nearly shrieks. 

People are still walking about the streets in scattered clumps, a few catching glimpses at the panicked Losers. Ben seems to shrink into himself a bit in embarrassment, ripping off his headlamp.Mike, however, is persistent.

“It’s fair to let us know what we’re walking into, Richie.”

“Jesus, okay…” Richie grips the front of his shirt, praying he doesn’t have a heart attack from the sharp pain behind his ribcage. His mouth is so dry from the heavy breathing that his lips are sticking to his braces. “Eddie – Eddie is fucking bonkers, Mike.”

“Bonkers like how?” He asks in such a nonplussed, collected manner. As if Richie had just told him they have a new school project coming up and he needs the booklist. It’s as calculating as it is concerned, and that concern in Mike’s eyes is what keeps Richie steady enough to talk.

“He’s lost it, man. Like, fucking possessed or something. He ate…” Richie quickly shifts into a whisper. “He killed Sonia, Mike. Like, with his bare hands and teeth.”

“I’m sorry?” Ben rasps. “What the fuck do you mean, teeth?”

“It looked like he ate bits of her, I don’t know!”

Ben starts heaving a bit, but Mike merely frowns. His face twitches, and Richie can see how much he’s torn to react, pushing it down so he can act pragmatically.

“If he just killed her, I wouldn’t blame him for snapping,” Mike says seriously. “But eating… This is…”

“Sick,” Ben gags. “This is like clown shit again. Not human.”

“Not human,” Mike nods in agreement. “Okay. So there it is. We might be dealing with something strong and otherworldly. So we need to be strong.”

“Fucking supernatural shit again,” Ben says. “We gotta hurry, then. Eddie wouldn’t do that. Eddie wouldn’t. It’s something else.”

Upon approaching Eddie’s house again, Richie realizes it’s just as dead quiet as before. The dull light downstairs is still on, and the door is swung wide open. Richie thinks – Richie hopes – that it was just from him forgetting to shut it behind him as he ran out. 

He swears he heard it slam behind him, though.

With Richie still much more out of breath, Mike enters the home first. He cautiously looks around the corners before stepping over the threshold. When Richie steps in, he’s momentarily startled by Mike slapping a hand over his mouth. 

Once he can’t hear his panting breaths anymore, he realizes what Mike is listening to; nothing.

“Bill?” Ben calls up the stairs. He cranes himself around the banister, careful not to be directly in sight of whatever could be up there. “Stanley?” He turns back to Richie. “Was it just you three?”

Mike lowers his hand, allowing Richie to answer. He licks the film off his braces to unstick his lip. “I asked Beverly to come here.”

Ben curses under his breath, gripping the banister a little tighter. “Hello?” he screams again. “Beverly? Eddie?”

“We don’t have time for this!” Richie huffs. Ignoring Mike and Ben’s protest, Richie hurries up to the second floor landing. There’s a switch on the left, just before Eddie’s bedroom. The lighting still works up here, but there doesn’t seem to be any sign of life. 

All of the doors are wide open. Richie takes a peek into each one; first Eddie’s bedroom, which brings a painful stab of nostalgia to Richie’s chest; Sonia’s bedroom looks untouched; the spare room is full of boxes and junk, but no places for Eddie to hide properly; the bathroom is still and empty.

“What the fuck…” Richie whispers to himself. His panic is now dampened by confusion, and he feels a bit crazy. What had happened just a bit ago was so abrupt and graphic, there’s no way he just imagined it.

Unless…

Was it It again? Was everything, down to Bill and Stan being with him, all an illusion?

Slowly, Richie makes his way down the stairs. He’s about to voice his concerns about losing his mind, but he immediately sees Ben looking green in the face.

“I’m guessing that’s your puke next to her body?” Ben says in a very strained voice. Mike is also looking pointedly away from the living room area, his face grave.

“She’s… she’s still there?” Richie asks quietly.

“Can’t see her moving about too easily,” Ben grimaces.

“I don’t understand… They were all here.”

The three of them take a few moments to look around. Anywhere but the living room, at first. It’s not until they dare themselves to take a peek over there when Richie finally notices something. There’s a torn piece of floral paper under the lamp Bill had turned on earlier, with chicken scratch handwriting. Richie picks it up and reads out loud:

“ He ran, follow the bran! ” Richie scrunches his face. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Are we sure Eddie didn’t leave this as a trap?” Mike mumbles.

“It’s Stan’s writing…”

“Raisin Bran!” Ben shouts. They turn to him as he picks up a cardboard box from the floor. “It’s empty. Stan must’ve taken the bag out.”

“They’re leaving a trail of breadcrumbs,” Mike sighs in relief. “Good thinking, Stan. Thank god for the Boy Scouts.”

For a moment, Richie feels thankful that he’s not insane, but it brings back that dread; he sort of wishes he was imagining it all now. 

“Here…” Richie goes to grab the flashlight Bill had been using earlier, clicking it on. “I don’t know how long that bag of healthy dirt is going to last. We have to keep an eye on it. Haystack, save your battery for that headband if we need it.”

The beam of light hovers over the porch, where Richie now clearly sees several bran flakes scattered, crumbled from them running up to the door just a bit ago. His grip is unsteady, hands shaking as he tries to carefully follow the path that Stan had laid out for them.

The trail starts to take them just the way they came, with Richie mentally kicking himself for the wasted time. They run awkwardly down West Broadway, careful to not miss a single flake on the ground. From an outsider's view point, they must look insane. Richie is just about ready to make that right towards the clubhouse again, when he realizes that the trail keeps going straight.

“No,” Mike voices just behind him, already catching on. “Please, no…”

“There’s no way we’re going back there,” Ben pants, his voice straining as he side-jogs.

“It has to be, then…” Richie slows down, pointing the flashlight straight ahead. “It’s… It. We’re going back to Neibolt.”

“Huh-how?” Mike shakes his head in disbelief. “We killed It.”

“It hasn’t been enough time!” Ben shrieks, looking horrified.

“What else could it be?” Richie throws his hands up in defeat.

“But to possess Eddie like you said?” Mike questions, brow furrowed. “It must’ve… shit…”

“What? Mike, what?”

“Glamours. They… they can… lay eggs… have children…”

“I’m sorry, did you just fucking say eggs?”

“I don’t see how… It wouldn’t have been just Eddie then, right? How then…?”

“The leper.”

Mike and Richie both turn to Ben. He’s staring ahead at nothing as a realization comes over his face. “Eddie kept spitting up all that vomit. It looked like black tar, remember? He said – he said it tasted like mud and… rotten eggs…”

Mike’s face twists up in disgust, and Richie can feel his own contort as his stomach flips in his belly. Richie can’t fathom it, picturing worm-like parasites swimming through the dark sludge, squirming down Eddie’s throat. Eating him from the inside out, making a nest in his brain, digesting whatever Eddie was, and leaving whatever they are to become.

“We can help him. I’m not going to leave him like that.”

“Rich–!”

“I’m not wasting more time, Mike! Let’s fucking go!”