#it book

Flashlight warning

Song by Mitski and Son Lux.

Coming soon-ish

Name:Robin

Age: 16

I will be using this account to purely just post stuff about IT and nothing else (for now anyways you never know).

I like drawing, reading, listening to music and other things I can't think of.

anyways I'm writing a mini-fic of Pennywise/Adult Beverly Marsh.

Well, I was like...I want to write SOMETHING with Pennywise x Someone. Preferably with a woman cuz I am too XD and wahlaaaaaa we got an adult persona in the IT universe. Perfect. No need for an OC and all that hassle. And I like Bev so why not.

I don't know why I'm like this brother

Anyways here's the synopsis:

The first time Beverly Marsh faced Pennywise, she was a child fighting for her life.

The second time, she is a mother fighting for her daughter's.

After returning to Derry following her father's death, Beverly expects old memories and old nightmares to haunt her. She doesn't expect the creature beneath the town to take an interest in her in a way she never could have imagined.

Pennywise has spent centuries learning how to frighten humans.

Understanding them is proving much more difficult.

AKA: A cosmic eldritch creature attempts to court Beverly Marsh in his own strange ways, and Beverly is absolutely not thrilled.

Back to the Old House

Chapter 1: Welcome Home

Derry’s gutters were swelling with rain and the skies were a bleak grey, the color of day old tea. Trees bent beneath the wind and the leaves racked with water. The sign of the Center Street Drug store was blinking faintly, like a light on the ocean. Cars passed steadily by the rain streaked windows. The rain pattered on the roof, like an angry fist pounding over and over again into the shingles. 

Beverly had come back, despite the belief that she would never step a foot into this town ever again. It was an impossible belief really—but she had believed in crazier things hadn’t she? 

She was standing in Al Marsh’s old apartment and the shaggy old carpet was stiff underneath her shoes. Beverly had considered taking off her shoes when she had entered the apartment and had decided against it. The rain continued to slash at the windows like ugly claws, relentless but futile against the glass. There was much to do, much to address but all she wanted to do was to stare out at the downpour. 

Beverly remembered her days as a child when such days passed over Derry, it was as if a spell had been cast over the whole town. The bustling town fell into a slumber, the day was slower, dragging its feet as the world was nothing but dark clouds, rainfall and the murmur of thunder occasionally. She cast a glance to her left and saw the old door which led out to the egress staircase where she spent whole afternoons reading books while perched on a metal stair— and when her father wasn’t home, smoking a cigarette. Beverly would usually swipe a pack at the Drug Store when Mr. Keene wasn’t looking. 

They were lonely days. She didn’t miss them. And even now, even then, with the Losers Club…while the boys were a small beacon in her life, it could never compare to her father’s looming shadow. And…that curse on this town, that beyond horror thing which lurked underneath her very feet, beneath the town itself. Beverly tried to shake the thoughts from her mind. 

Beverly finally pivoted and sucked in a breath as she took in the musty living room. The single reclining chair was propped against the peeling yellow wallpaper, facing the box TV. 

I worry Bevvie—

“No.” she said firmly. 

I worry a lot. 

“Stop,” she clutched at her head, digging her hands into her curls. And suddenly, she felt small in this big house. The chair loomed, the TV glowed in the dark and a shadow rushed to the forefront. She could smell the stink on herself all over again, that day when she ran, ran like she was beating the Devil as Bill would say. That day when she had gotten on hands and knees, crawling under a dump truck while her father had raved like a rabid dog. 

His voice roared in her ears like a tidal wave. 

SLUTCHILD SLUTCHILD SLUTCHILD SLUTCHILD SLUTCHILD.

Beverly wanted to crumple, to fall apart right there on her feet and curl into a small ball. That very same day she had run, run, run all the way to the clubhouse, grime clutching at her skin and filth tangled in her hair…and she had collapsed into Ben’s arms. She had felt safe there, in that hole, amongst the dirt and the worms—how sad. 

Her arms snaked across her body and clutched at the sides of herself, crossing herself as if she were the one going to the grave instead. The rain continued to pound outside and it cast an eerie shadow on the living room, a pale ghostly light. Beverly crossed the carpet in strident steps and went into the kitchen where more futile light spilled in through the paisley kitchen curtains. 

Her child sat there at the table, munching on some goodies that Beverly had bought at the Center Street Drug. Benny looked up with a quizzical expression and then greeted her quite happily, her smile lit up the dim room. A sort of warmth stirred up within Beverly and she returned the smile with a half smile of her own. “Mommy!” Bennie cried. 

Beverly, without a second thought, scooped her daughter up into her arms and Bennie fell into a fit of giggles. “Oh sweetheart,” Beverly pecked her daughter’s cheek with a chafe kiss and then spun her around. Another giggle escaped Bennie and a real smile dawned on the young woman’s face. She drew her child in for a hug and could smell the peach smell of Bennie’s hair. 

Letting out a sigh, all of her worries smelled to dispense at once. Her child in her arms, the steady fall and rest of their chests, the faint thump of her heartbeat. 

Just as the world seemed to still and fade away, her daughter began to squirm in her arms. Beverly lowered Bennie onto the checkered kitchen tiles—white and yellow. Bennie was running cheerily around the kitchen, in one arm she clutched her stuffed bear: Pinky. Her daughter had never been out of the state of California before and flying across the country was certainly a ride. It wasn’t easy transporting a 4 year old by yourself. Tom, her husband, had been busy with the fashion business and all that.

Al Marsh was as dead as a doornail. It was the only reason she would ever return and the only reason she would ever want to, despite everything. Beverly had gotten the call from an apathetic voice—the landlord—on the phone, in the early morning a few days ago. He had been rotting in there for three days. No one had bothered to check up on him. The man was a janitor at the old high school and spent his day mopping up a drunk kid’s bile. There was not much to write home about yet he wrote to her…his own letters that came in hurried and languid waves. Sometimes he wrote letters every day and sometimes he wrote them only every few months. 

Beverly never opened them. 

But she did answer that call, a part of her ached and the other shamed her for her grief. Her heart felt like a piece of thin twine, being pulled relentlessly in two directions. It would snap eventually, she knew. It was either that or she sided with one part over the other. Today, though, she remained in limbo and in a paradoxical state. 

Her child was bubbly, even happy in this place, the place which had raised her to cringe at a rising hand, to carefully walk across the floorboards to ensure they wouldn’t creak and to feel terrifying gripping fear in every waking moment. It lurked, beneath the rippling surface of her psyche…a predator in wait. 

Beverly had already begun to pick through her things, one by one. She had considered hiring specialized cleaners to haul all of the old junk out. But then she remembered: one, she couldn’t afford that luxury and two, what would her father say? She knew what he would say and they weren’t pretty words. Her father didn’t much like strangers and despised anyone nosing around in their business. To welcome such strangers into her home and sift through their things would be a death wish. Beverly didn’t much enjoy the thought of dying: it was a dark place, a place her father was doomed to wander. 

So, Beverly picked through her things like a good girl: turning over old CDs and blowing dust off old books underneath her childhood bed. Bennie busied herself with her stuffed bear and sat in the hallway in her pink socks, holding up her toy and watched as her hands puppeted him, making him toddle on his furry legs. 

Her childhood bed had long since disappeared under boxes and boxes of old things. Her father had turned the place into a semi-storage room but otherwise, it was untouched and the only thing that settled its hands upon the room was time and dust. As she kneeled, she pulled stuff out from under the bed and threw all of it out: tossing it into a plastic bag in the corner. Further in she could see more things out of reach. Beverly wrapped a hand around a bedpost and tugged on it. She sneezed and then tugged again, the bed groaned as it was pulled towards her.  

Beverly gasped as a book, tucked in the space between the bedframe and the mattress tumbled out and onto the floor. She blinked and picked it up, studying the old faded eye emblazoned onto the cover: 1984. She didn’t remember much of it but she had recalled Winston and Julia: standing erect and obedient in O’Brien’s living room, the telescreen off, as they declared allegiance to the rebellion, proclaiming with little emotion the intent to murder children if necessary. 

Beverly tossed it into the corner without another glance. 

The funeral was slow moving and frankly, almost empty. Beverly had held an Irish wake which was customary, a few family members came—many of her distant relatives who lived out in the West didn’t come. Her Aunt Anna, who had taken her in at the age of 14 when things became “too much” at home, was there. The principal of Derry High School who had employed Al Marsh for twenty five years had paid his respects as well. He was a stern faced man and gave Beverly a stiff hug before saying his farewells and hurrying off. 

Bennie was wearing a second hand dress that Beverly had gotten at the thrift store in town. The dress was a drab black. Beverly wore one of her own that professed her ample modesty, long sleeves and a long skirt that reached her ankles. 

Her father—due to the decay and span of him rotting in his apartment—had been cremated. They hadn’t had the luxury of an open coffin. 

A part of her was almost relieved to see the urn sitting upon a decorated table, flanked with flowers instead of a bier and an open coffin and her father’s sallow face. Despite the mortuary assistant insisting that Beverly visit the body, she had refused. The urn was a simple silver decorated with a few sparse lines looping around its exterior. To think that her father was in there was unthinkable and almost surreal. She almost didn’t believe it. 

Beverly gave a vague eulogy with her hands gripping the lectern with a sort of ferocity. The limited audience had looked at her mildly and little interest lined their faces. It was all just customary. Even the stories they had shared before the eulogy and when they had milled about. The half-hearted laughs over pieces of old memories—not the whole—were just custom. No one spoke of her bruises, no one spoke of the day she had run her heart out with her father raving and screaming behind her, no one had discussed her mother’s suicide. 

At least your daddy doesn’t drink. 

Beverly bit the inside of her cheek, chewing on it and said the last few words of the eulogy calmly, in a placid manner akin to a peaceful lake. She wanted to sob, to feel something yet she felt like a husk, a hollow woman in a dress standing before her scant family members. Beverly hadn’t felt anything…she missed him, sure, she had to. But she never answered his letters, she had never visited, he had died alone in his chair watching a baseball game—his eyes glued to a screen in his last few moments. She wondered what it had been like…dying alone and scared and terrified of what lay beyond. She hoped it was quick, she hoped he hadn’t realized that as he dozed off into sleep for the last time…that it was indeed, the last. 

The men and women of familiar faces filtered out one at a time and she remained with her daughter who was swinging and kicking her legs in her seat. Bennie didn’t understand and Beverly had not tried to make her understand. There was no point in mourning for a man she didn’t know. Perhaps Bennie did understand that something…something was wrong but as her eyes flicked from her mother to the urn, she didn’t ask. Beverly appreciated it. She would explain one day, death and the great mystery but today was not the day. 

“Bev?” Beverly turned suddenly at the sound of her old nickname. Her aunt was standing there, her arms crossed over her stomach. Aunt Anna had a nice face, one filled with age yet her eyes still sparkled with youth. Her aunt sat next to her and Bennie looked curiously at the older woman. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing, my dear.”

“I’m good,” Beverly tried a smile and failed. Even as a child she couldn’t fake one realistically. 

The pair sat in silence for a few moments until Bennie piped up, “Who are you?” 

Anna gave the young girl a real smile and responded, “I’m your great aunt and your grandpa’s sister.” 

“I didn’t know Grandpa Al,” Bennie said.

A sort of sticky revulsion surged through Beverly at those words. 

Anna didn’t answer for a moment and then said, “He was a good man.” Her aunt slipped a hand onto her niece’s shoulder and patted her, supposedly in a reassuring way. Her aunt turned to Beverly, “I just wanted to let you know. If you need anyone to talk to…you can always call me up in Portland.” 

“I know,” Beverly said drily. She picked at the skin on her elbow as she spoke. 

Then as she turned, she swore she saw those cold blue eyes—the ones her father had—stained onto her aunt’s face, the one who had sheltered her when she needed her most. The look disappeared just as quickly but as Anna pressed a kiss to her niece’s cheek, Beverly inwardly shrunk away. 

“I love you,” Anna said, a smile dazzling her features. 

“I love you too, Aunt Anna.” Beverly felt like a small child all over again, getting into her aunt’s car on that rainy afternoon, oh so long ago. 

Beverly was cooking eggs on the old stove of her family home and stirred at them aggressively in the pan. Bennie had already wrinkled her nose when she came into the kitchen, she was a quiet child mostly but she did say in that petulant voice, “Scrambled eggs for dinner again?” 

Beverly turned her head and looked at her daughter over her shoulder, “Yes.” 

“Can’t we eat anything else?” 

“We will…tomorrow,” Beverly said. She turned back to the scrambled eggs and then felt something tugged at her pajama leg. She turned her head again, looking down and saw her daughter’s large eyes looking up at her. 

“Can I turn on the TV?” 

Beverly swallowed, her throat felt sandpaper. The sound of static invaded her senses, pounding at her head. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Bennie’s mother said apologetically, “Can’t you play with Pinky? He’s very lonely,” 

“Lonely? He doesn’t want to play! He told me so.” Bennie pouted, glaring up at her mother. 

Beverly arched her brow. This was new. Bennie’s imaginary  friends were always so flamboyant and playful. “Why not?” 

“He’s sad.” 

Beverly chewed the inside of her cheek. About what? She almost asked but then decided against it. 

Beverly flashed her daughter the best smile she could muster and pointed with her wooden spoon to the table, with its ricketed chairs. “How about you sit with mommy? I can talk with you if Pinky isn’t up for playing.” 

“Can you play?” 

I can try. 

“Sure. After dinner,” Beverly said. 

Bennie toddled over to the head chair, the one Bev’s father sat at usually and sat herself down. Swinging her legs back and forth, she took in the kitchen and the cabinets with its rusted hinges. A comfortable silence lay between the mother-daughter pair. It almost reminded her of the hazy nights in California when she would cook dinner for her family. Tom was sweet, he was sweet usually. He was just tired and busy, very busy, she feared. And he hated her smoking. He had put an end to that a year ago. 

Her palm felt clammy as she reached for the salt on the counter. She could almost feel at peace, in this house, in this old kitchen. Acutely, she could hear the rise and fall of Bennie’s breath, impossible as it seemed. It was a comforting sound. Beverly remembered that in the first few weeks of Bennie’s life she had been coughing, a horrible hoarse sound whistling in and out of her baby’s throat. It terrified Beverly for weeks on end. Tom had told her it would be fine. He didn’t like her crying or the baby crying—it was “too much” crying for one household. 

She tried to brace herself against those thoughts: the ones of her father and husband. Too many men always crowded the forefront of her mind. Perhaps it was being in this town again. She was like a salmon returning to its birthplace, to give life one last time and die. 

Birthplace, it reminded her of that Star Wars movie, Return of the Jedi as Luke and Han rode out to the desert to face the Sarlacc. 

“There's nothing to see. I used to live here, you know.” / “You're gonna die here, you know.”

A sort of hysterical giggle escaped her. Bennie looked up. 

Derry was a bad place, she knew it when she was young and she certainly remembered it now. 

Mike had suggested that the thing fed the town its evilness and more and more as she grew older, she realized this town was feeding It—both literally and metaphorically—in spirit, mind and soul. It was just a cockroach searching for a damp space to inhabit: Derry was that place, a dark humid place pregnant with fear and hatred. 

Yeah, she wanted to get out of this town as quickly as possible. Just as soon as her father’s apartment was cleaned out and then they would be on their way to California, back to home, back to Tom. 

Beverly had cleared off her old bed and dusted off in her old room. Her daughter will be sleeping in here tonight. Beverly had found her old sleeping bag tucked away under the bed and decided to sleep there for the remainder of their stay. She still hadn’t opened the door to her father’s bedroom yet. 

Beverly flitted around her old childhood bedroom and finally came to stand before the yellowed shades which covered her bedroom window. She tugged on the tab at the bottom of the shade and pulled it up, exposing the night. Her stern gaze swept over the sable trees that reached and twisted towards the foggy skies. Nothing could reach the window up here, realistically, but she locked the window anyway and then absently checked it again. Beverly tugged it down again with an annoying ziiiiip type sound. 

Bennie watched her mother curiously as Beverly hurried from one corner to another. Beverly couldn’t help but feel a sort of paranoia tug at her, something with teeth that sunk into her skin and wouldn’t let go, its fangs injecting poison into her veins. Her only audience was her daughter yet she felt ridiculous like a chicken running around without its head. She couldn’t help as she checked the window’s lock, her fingers running over the plastic white handle. 

“Mommy, are you alright?”  Bennie piped up. Her auburn hair hung loosely and slid on her shoulder as she peered around at her mother. 

Beverly practically whipped her head around. Bennie jumped. 

“Yes,” Beverly said quickly. “I was just…” she looked back towards the window and shook her head. The young woman turned to her daughter and scooped her up, just as she had done so many times before. She lowered her daughter seamlessly onto the bed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Goodnight, sweetie.” 

“Goodnight, Mom.” Bennie replied. Beverly cracked a small smile and reached out to the lamp on the nightstand, with one tug it went out. She closed the door silently behind her and began to pace around the old apartment. She crossed to the living room and checked the front door. Beverly opened it a few times and then closed it, ensuring that the latch clicked and then locked it. 

Next she went to the fire escape doorway, the one she used so fondly as a child. The walkway almost looked like a skeletal cage, a prison made of black bones outside. It reached up past the doorway and onto the next floor. In the distance, she could see the outline of the white standpipe in all its sulking glory. The rest of the town was as dark as the void above them. She hoped that at least one light was on out there but her prayers were not answered. Beverly locked the fire escape door and padded back to the front door to check the locks again. 

As she did this, it felt as if a stone had been dropped into her stomach, heavy and relentless. Her heart pounded incessantly at her ribcage and the sound resonated through her: thump, thump, thump. Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge? The old nursery rhyme pushed to the crest of her mind. 

Beverly lay herself down on the gruff old carpet and wiggled herself into the sleeping bag. It was warm, way too warm for a summer night to be in a sleeping bag but she didn’t mind. A fan on the coffee table was blowing idly, oscillating around in the dead air. At first, she fitfully tossed and turned and then settled into a deep sleep. 

She dreamed of the Barrens with its great sloping Kenduskeag river, the water rushing over the rocks as old as time and the great greens, the tall trees and bushes and shrubs. Her feet were bare as she ran, ran and ran and ran along the soft dirt. Whether she was running away or towards something, she couldn’t tell. 

Then she was torn out of sleep.