Chapter Text
Eddie Kaspbrak had never really thought a lot about what the afterlife might look like exactly, but he sure as hell hadn’t been expecting this. So maybe he wasn’t dead after all? Hope surged within him, only to be squashed again immediately when he looked down to where his hands still clutched Richie’s leather jacket. He held the jacket away from his chest, looked at the remnants of his shirt, and swallowed hard. Yeah, he was dead, alright. No question about that – not with the gaping hole in his chest where Its claw had skewered him. No fucking way he would have survived that.
Yet here he was, in what looked like a home office of some kind, or maybe a library or a study. Bookcases overflowing with novels lined the walls, except for the wall with the big window in it. There was a big, mahogany desk there, a closed laptop on top of it. Stacks of paper were scattered around the laptop, one of the stacks held down by a stone paperweight shaped like a turtle. Bright sunlight fell through the window, warming the air and illuminating tiny specks of dust that floated lazily in the air. Eddie could faintly hear birds chirping outside, as well as the occasional distant hum of traffic passing by. He went to the window and saw a big, well-kept lawn, separated from the street by an intimidating wrought iron fence. Two bat-shaped ornaments were sitting on top of it, looking like they were guarding the closed gate.
Eddie’s fingers itched to open the window and let in some fresh air – he could still smell the sewers on his clothes and skin – but he decided against it, since he didn’t know what exactly he was dealing with here. For all he knew the air could be toxic, even though the world outside the window looked perfectly normal, and even if the air was okay, his clothes were still damp from the sewer water and he might catch a cold. Unless dead people were immune to colds, of course. That would make sense. On the other hand, who knew what would come in through the window once it was open? Pennywise could be lurking on the other side somewhere. No, best to leave the window closed.
He looked down at Richie’s jacket again, wishing his friend were here with him now. This was a confusing and frightening situation, and he’d always felt braver and stronger around Richie. Slowly, he unfolded the jacket and pulled it on. It was too big for him, but the weight of the leather felt reassuring, and he felt himself slightly relax as he rolled up the sleeves, the tightness in his chest, that he hadn’t even been consciously aware of anymore since it had seemed to be there since the moment he’d set foot in Derry for the first time in twenty-seven years, loosening up a fraction.
A sudden outburst of high-pitched yapping tore through the peaceful silence in the room, making him jump. It came from behind him. Raising his arms in a defensive stance, Eddie turned around. The yapping seemed to come from behind the closed door on the other side of the room. The door was white, but there were no words scrawled across it, Eddie noticed with a small shudder of relief. Still, he wasn’t about to open it and face the dog behind it. “No sir, not falling for that shit again,” he muttered, as he backed up until he was flush against the wall beside the window. The dog continued to bark angrily, and now Eddie could also hear it scratch its nails on the door in a frantic attempt to get inside. He looked around the room for anything he could use as a weapon, his gaze landing on the turtle-shaped paperweight. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. It would do, he decided. When – not if, Eddie was sure the beast would find a way – the hellhound would burst in, he’d be ready.
“Molly! Down, girl! What’s gotten into you?” A man’s voice came through the door. The door handle moved slightly, and Eddie tensed, getting ready to throw the paperweight at whoever – or whatever – would come in.
The door opened and Eddie threw his turtle, only to see it sailing unimpeded through the doorway and into the hallway behind it as the man opening the door bent down to pick up his furiously yelping Corgi. The stone thunked loudly into the hallway wall, and Eddie frantically looked around the room, in search for another weapon. One of the books, maybe? Then the man rose, shushing the dog on his arm, and Eddie eyed him warily. He was tall and looked about seventy, with gray hair that was slightly too long and modern glasses framing dark blue eyes. They were friendly eyes wrinkled with smile lines. He didn’t seem like a big threat, but Eddie backed into the wall again just in case.
“Hello,” the man said, looking Eddie over with mild curiosity, his eyes widening as he took in the torn shirt and the gaping hole beneath it. “Who are you?”
“Um. Hi. I’m Eddie Kaspbrak.” Eddie saw the man’s face light up with an immediate mix of understanding and weary acceptance.
“That makes sense, with the movie coming out and all.” He sighed, his shoulders drooping. Then, to the dog, he said, “Now, Molly, I’m going to put you down and you’re going to be nice to Mr. Kaspbrak over here, okay? He’s been through enough.” He began to bend down, obviously intending to put the dog on the floor.
“No!” Eddie shouted, pressing his back more firmly into the wall. “Keep that fucking thing away from me!”
“Relax, she’s not gonna hurt you. She’s just a tiny – oh. I get it. The Pomeranian. Hold on.” He turned and put the dog in the hallway. “Stay!” He commanded, closing the door. Turning back to Eddie while smiling pleasantly, he said, “Now, Mr. Kaspbrak… Can I call you Eddie?”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I forget to introduce myself?” Before Eddie could tell him to stay back, the man strode towards him, hand outstretched. “I’m Steve,” he said, grasping Eddie’s hand and shaking it. “Steve King. I’d add it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I have a hunch that you wouldn’t agree, given the circumstances.”
“You got that right,” Eddie said. King’s name rang a bell somewhere in the back of his head, but he figured it was because it was one of those generic names, like Smith or Jones, so he let it go again immediately. He yanked his hand out of King’s grip. “Where the fuck am I, and how did I get here?”
King stepped back, giving Eddie some much needed space. He gestured at the desk chair. “You want to sit down, Eddie, so we can talk?”
Eddie considered it, then shook his head. He wasn’t ready to trust this man enough to let go of the wall yet, even though King didn’t seem to pose any real danger. The Pomeranian hadn’t seemed like a dangerous creature at first either. “Just answer my questions. And tell me how you knew about the Pomeranian.”
“That’s… Kind of a long and hard to explain story. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit down?”
“I’m fine right where I am.” Eddie crossed his arms, irritation suddenly trumping his confusion and fear. “Now quit hedging and start answering my questions. If it helps, I already guessed that I’m dead, so you can skip that part of the story.”
King sighed. “Okay. You’re in my house, which is in Bangor, Maine. Well, whenever I’m not in Florida. And it’s my fault that you’re dead – but the Pomeranian wasn’t my doing. That’s on Andy. Or Gary, technically. As is the…” he gestured vaguely at his own chest, “You know. In my version, Pennywise ripped your arm off and you bled out from that. Sorry.”
“Your version of what? And what do you know about Pennywise?”
“Like I said, it’s kind of hard to explain. So maybe I should show you instead. Let’s see…” King looked around the room, like he was searching for something, until his gaze landed on the bookcase farthest away from Eddie. “Ah, there it is!” He went to get a book from the top shelf, then turned to Eddie, holding the book against his chest. “This will be a shock. I’m sorry about that, but it’s the quickest way to make you understand.” He crossed the room and handed Eddie the book.
Eddie looked down at it and felt the air leave his lungs as a sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. The cover of the heavy book was black, with the title stamped across the center in bold, bloodred letters. “IT?” Eddie read it in a whisper. Below the title was a drawing of a sewer grate, a nasty looking green claw coming up from the darkness underneath to curl around it. Next to the sewer grate was a paper boat. The author's name was… “Stephen King. That’s you. You wrote this?” He looked at King, who nodded. “And it’s about… the clown?”
“You may find other familiar stuff inside,” King said, and he pulled out the desk chair. “But you really should consider sitting down before you open it.”
Eddie ignored that last bit. He didn’t want to open the book, he really didn’t. But his hands seemed to have a will of their own and were already doing it. He looked down, leafed through the first couple of pages that held copyright notices and whatnot, until he came to the first page of the story. He scanned the page, flinching when he read familiar names. “Georgie?” he whispered. Bill was mentioned too, he saw. He paged through the first chapter, his hands starting to shake as he skimmed over the story of how Georgie had been killed by Pennywise. He turned to chapter two and saw that it was about the murder of Adrian Mellon, and he knew that name too, it was the gay kid who had been beaten to death at the fair and had caused Mike to call the Losers’ Club back to Derry. “How? How could you have written about…” His eyes went back to the title of the second chapter. “The year’s wrong. This didn’t happen in 1984.”
“In my version, it did. This book came out in 1986.”
“But…”
“Just keep going. Open it somewhere in the middle.”
Eddie was glad that he was still leaning against the wall, because his legs were starting to feel all rubbery. He did as King said, skipping to a random page. As he read, his legs slowly buckled and his back slid down the wall until he was sitting on the thick carpet, but he hardly noticed. He knew this scene firsthand, even though some things had been altered. But the main characters were all there – Mike, Bill, Ben, Beverly, Richie… Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak. He felt numb as he read about him and his friends bantering over drinks and dinner, catching up after not having seen each other for twenty-seven years. His own voice seemed to reach his ears from a million miles away when he asked, “So you’re saying… What? That you’re like a fucking psychic or something? You knew that all this was gonna happen before it actually did?” But even as he said it, Eddie feared that that wasn’t what King was trying to tell him. He suddenly had the irresistible urge to cover his ears with his hands like a kid, not wanting to hear the writer’s next words, but his arms were too heavy.
“No, what I’m saying is that I created all of it.” King said it apologetically.
Eddie needed a moment to process that. “Okay. So you made it up… And then it became real?”
“It was never real, Eddie.” King sat down on his own desk chair, suddenly looking very tired. “None of the things in that book are real. And that includes… Well, you know. The characters. You. I’m sorry.”
“You’re bullshitting me, right? This is some kind of prank?” King shook his head and Eddie looked down at the book in his hands again, at his own name. The names of his friends. His mind spinning, he paged through the book some more. He flinched every time something familiar jumped out at him. The Clubhouse. Beep beep Richie. Henry Bowers and the rock fight. His broken arm. His mother keeping him away from his friends. Neibolt Street. Mr. Keene and the pharmacy. The Leper. It was all there – but all slightly different from what he remembered. And yet… somehow, the things in the book rang true in his mind too. It was like one of those holographic pictures where there were two different images, depending on the angle from which you looked at it. Like he suddenly had two sets of memories. He put the book face down on the carpet, wiping his hands on his jeans as if he’d touched something dirty. “No,” he said. “Nuh-uh. I’m not buying it. I’m… I’m dreaming, that’s it! It’s not me who isn’t real, it’s you!” He sounded desperate even to his own ears. But it had to be true, this had to be just a dream. And if he just closed his eyes and went to sleep, and then opened them again, he’d be back… where? Back at the Derry Townhouse, he decided. Yeah, he’d be back in that dingy hotel room, on that sorry excuse for a bed, and it would be almost morning and everything would be alright. Well, they would still have to kill Pennywise of course, but hey, at least he now knew how to do it, right? “Right,” he muttered, and clenched his eyes shut.
“Eddie? Are you okay? Can I get you anything? A glass of water maybe?” King asked.
“Shut up. I’m trying to sleep.” Eddie replied.
“This isn’t a dream, Eddie. It’s really happening.”
“I said. Shut. The fuck. Up.” Eddie fully expected King to keep talking, but to his surprise the writer said nothing, the room growing silent. Even the dog – Molly – had quit its insistent yapping. Good. They must both be gone, then. Had to be. But he’d wait a while, just to make sure. He focused on keeping his eyes closed and repeating to himself that all this was just a dream, it wasn’t real, and that all he needed to do was go to sleep, then wake up and everything would be okay. “It’s not real,” he whispered for good measure.
Then he opened his eyes.
And found King looking at him, sympathy written all over his face.
“FUCK!” Eddie shouted.
Behind the door, Molly started barking again.