Want your boat, Georgie? Pennywise asked. I only repeat myself because you really do not seem that eager. He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore. Yes, sure, George said, looking into the stormdrain. And a balloon? I’ve got red and green and yellow and blue... Do they float? Float? The clown’s grin widened. Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy... George reached. The clown seized his arm. And George saw the clown’s face change. What he saw then was terrible enough to make his worst imaginings of the thing in the cellar look like sweet dreams; what he saw destroyed his sanity in one clawing stroke. They float, the thing in the drain crooned in a clotted, chuckling voice. It held George’s arm in its thick and wormy grip, it pulled George toward that terrible darkness where the water rushed and roared and bellowed as it bore its cargo of storm debris toward the sea. George craned his neck away from that final blackness and began to scream into the rain, to scream mindlessly into the white autumn sky which curved above Derry on that day in the fall of 1957. His screams were shrill and piercing, and all up and down Witcham Street people came to their windows or bolted out onto their porches. They float, it growled, they float, Georgie, and when you’re down here with me, you’ll float, too–
Posted on: Thu, 30 Oct 2014 10:28:38 +0000
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