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Generally, It liked strikes. When tensions ran right, emotions—fear included—ran close to the surface, making it easy for It to swoop in and snag a meal. The problem with strikes was that they tended to involve adults, while kids were Its favorite prey.
But this?
This?
This was amazing. It was like Christmas in July in New York City. The newsies had gone on strike, and what were newsies? Kids, and what were kids? Delicious. Finally, some good fucking food.
It was easy enough to slip into their ranks, disguising Itself as a young boy in tattered clothes and a newsboy hat. No one even gave It a second glance as It weaved through the crowd, scanning the theatre for a target. When in doubt, It thought, choose the smallest, so It zeroed in, only mildly surprised when no fears immediately popped into Its head. No matter; It was probably getting interference from all the other boys. It would just have to follow this little one home.
The rally ended in chaos. Perfect.
It fell in line with the little one’s group as they headed away from the theatre.
“Who are you?”
“Why,” It smiled, “I’m Penny.”
“What are you doing here?” the little one asked. “Where’re you from? Are you spying on us?”
Penny frowned, now mildly concerned about the lack of fears popping into Its head. “No, I’m not here to spy on you, I’m here to help you!” It replied cheerfully.
The little one narrowed his eyes. “You a newsie?”
“Yessir.”
He sighed irritably. “Well, you’re too little for me to just throw you out in the dark, so’s I guess you can stay.” He turned around and began to walk away. “You can sleep on that couch over there. Don’t got no more beds, ‘ere.”
Strange. Never before had It interacted with a human without sensing their fears. While the easy and perhaps smart thing to do would have been to go find an easier target, It was intrigued—frustrated, but intrigued.
“I’ll find out what you fear, little one,” Penny grumbled to Itself.
Two months later, eight-year-old ‘Penny Wise’ had become a daily fixture near Prospect Park, where he sold newspapers out of a storm drain. The headlines had been so good recently, what with all the kids disappearing in Brooklyn, that people were actually willing to buy sewer papers from little Penny, so he made good money, not that he had any use for it. What good was money to him when all he really wanted to know was what the heck Spot Conlon feared. He didn’t fear any of the usual, easy stuff, like spiders or vampires. He didn’t even fear the slightly more complex but common things, like heights or water. When It tried to tune into his fears, It found nothing . It even tried just up and biting him, earning itself a swat to the face and the nickname ‘Biter’.
After Its third attempt at ‘spider’, with an even bigger spider this time, it started to wonder if this little one feared anything at all.
Come Halloween, It decided it had no choice but to bring out the big guns. It waited until just past midnight on October 31st, then slammed the door to Spot’s room open with a gust of freezing air and an ominous whine, shattered the window, and tore Spot’s blanket off his sleeping body.
Spot groaned, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “Freakin’ drafts in here, man…”
It growled (out of frustration. If it happened to scare Spot, that would just be an added bonus, but of course it didn’t) and shook a few planks down from the ceiling.
Spot rolled his eyes. “Damn it. I told Mr. King we needed those nails replaced.” He stood and walked over to the center of the room, kicking the fallen planks off his blanket, which he picked up and wrapped around his shoulders.
Fine , It thought. You leave me no choice.
It materialized behind Spot as a dark, glowing demon, like a black hole in the shape of a towering creature with claws and horns, pits of hellfire for eyes and the agonized wails of millions of dead and dying children in pain for a voice. It roared at the boy, letting loose the fury of—
Smack .
It recoiled.
Spot stood in front of it, frowning, his hand pulled back in a fist.
Had this little boy just... punched it?
“Dude, wouldja stop? ” Spot huffed. “Ain’tcha tired? It’s been, like, three months. Go home .”
“Wha—” In shock, it reverted to its favorite form: Pennywise the clown. “You know?”
“Whadda you take me for?” Spot folded his arms across his chest.
It stammered uselessly. This had never happened before.
Spot huffed again. “Look, thanks for the headlines. I appreciate ‘em, really, we all do, but you’s startin’ to really irritate the shit outta me, so I’ma have to ask you to take a hike.”
It snarled. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I call my boys in here and we make ya.” Spot shrugged. “Ya ain’t the first punk we’ve had to deal with ‘ere, and ya won’t be the last. The magic tricks are real cute, though.”
Punk? Magic tricks?
It bared Its teeth and lunged at Spot in a last ditch effort to frighten him, but he just raised an eyebrow, standing his ground.
Furiously, It spat at him, but dematerialized all the same. Damn Spot Conlon, damn all the newsies of Brooklyn, and damn New York.
Maybe It should move to Maine.
“Is it gone?” a tiny newsie asked hopefully as Spot exited his room.
The King of Brooklyn chuckled, kneeling down to the boy’s height and ruffling his hair. “Yeah, Georgie. It won’t be bothering us no more.”