Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The house on Neibolt smells like rot and rusted water — metallic and sweet at the same time, like blood left too long in a sink. The air is thick and wet, and it sticks to the inside of Richie’s throat when he breathes.

He hates it.

He hates the way the walls seem closer than they were a second ago. Hates the way the floorboards don’t creak so much as sigh. Hates how every doorway feels like an open mouth. So he talks like he always does, “Okay, cool, cool, just saying — this place? Total fixer-upper. Real open concept. By open concept, I mean exposed death.” His laugh bounces down the hall, but comes back thinner.

“Richie,” Bill whispers. “Shh.”

“Right, right. Silence. Love it. Big fan of ominous quiet.”

They split up — just for a second. Bill goes down to the basement, Richie heads upstairs, and Eddie goes into the room closest to the front door ‘just in case.’ It was just supposed to be a few minutes. Just enough to check separate rooms, but it was just long enough for Richie’s flashlight to flicker once, twice, then dead. The noise of the others — their shoes, their breathing — cuts off like someone flipped a switch. The silence that replaces it isn’t empty, it’s waiting.

Richie swallows. “Okay. Hilarious. Ten out of ten, guys. Very immersive.”

No answer.

The hallway stretches. It doesn’t lurch or warp dramatically — it just… grows. Subtly. The door at the end pulls farther away with every blink. The wallpaper shifts in his peripheral vision, the faded flowers sagging into shapes that look almost like faces pressing outward.

Then come the voices. Not Pennywise, but kids. Older, mean.

“What are you, some kinda freak?”

“Don’t be weird, Tozier.”

“Why do you talk like that?”

They overlap, not shouted — whispered directly against his ears like a breath.

Richie spins. “You’re not real. You’re not—this is cheap, even for you.”

A mirror bleeds through the wallpaper at the end of the hall. Not hanging, but growing there. Glass pushing through plaster like a wound opening. His reflection stands inside it. Same Coke-bottle glasses, same stupid jacket, same dumb haircut, but his mouth is open and nothing comes out. He looks like he’s screaming — silent and wide and desperate.

Richie’s stomach drops. “Nope. Absolutely not. I did not consent to haunted funhouse bullshit.”

The reflection’s hands tremble and behind it — something moves. At first, it’s just a shadow. Then white. Then eyes. Pennywise unfolds slowly behind reflection-Richie like he’s rising out of his spine. No sudden grin. No lunging. Just hands. White gloves settling onto the reflection’s shoulders. Possessive, almost familiar. Richie suddenly feels pressure on his own shoulders, cold and wrong.

“Oh, Richie,” Pennywise croons — soft as velvet dragged over broken glass. “Such a noisy little boy.”

Richie’s jaw locks. “Don’t.”

“Always talking,” the clown continues gently. “Always filling the space.” The mirror-Richie’s mouth stretches wider and wider and wider, but there’s still no sound. “So no one hears the quiet part.”

The hallway narrows. The wallpaper pulses. Richie’s reflection blinks — and now he isn’t alone in it. Eddie stands beside him, close, way too close. Looking at Richie the way Richie only ever lets himself look when no one’s watching, soft, open, unarmored.

Richie’s breath stutters. “That’s not— That’s not a thing.”

Pennywise tilts his head. “Oh, but it is.”

The reflection shifts so now Eddie is stepping away. Not scared, just confused. Then his face changes, not into Pennywise, but into something worse. Recognition. Followed by revulsion, his lip curled. 

Richie feels it like a physical blow.

“You think if you joke enough,” Pennywise murmurs against his ear, breath hot and sweet and rotten, “they won’t see it?”

The mirror fractures — but not from the outside, from the inside. Cracks spiderweb across Eddie’s face in the reflection.

“You think he doesn’t notice?” the clown whispers. “The way you watch him.”

The hallway darkens until only the mirror is lit. Eddie in the glass backs away slowly like Richie is something contagious, something shameful.

“Don’t,” Richie says — but it comes out small, too small.

“You want him to know,” Pennywise hums. “You want him to look back.” The fingers on Richie’s shoulders tighten. He can’t move. “He’ll never see you the way you see him.”

The reflection changes again. Now it’s not just Eddie stepping away, it’s everyone. Bill. Bev. Ben. Mike. Stan. They fade one by one. Each time they vanish, the hallway gets longer, colder, quieter. Until it’s just Richie in the mirror. Alone. The cracks split his reflection down the middle.

Pennywise leans closer behind him. “When they find out,” the clown breathes, almost sympathetic, “they won’t laugh anymore.”

The house inhales. Floorboards rising and falling beneath Richie’s feet like ribs.

“They’ll leave.” The word echoes.

Leave.

Leave.

Leave.

Richie squeezes his eyes shut. His whole body is trembling now — not loud, not dramatic. Just a steady, humiliating shake. “I don’t care,” he lies. The mirror version of him mouths the same words, but the reflection’s eyes are wet.

“You’re afraid,” Pennywise whispers.

The reflection’s mouth finally moves on its own and this time it makes a sound. Just one word. “Alone.” The hallway stretches again. The others’ voices — real or not — are impossibly far away now. Even Eddie’s frantic “Richie!” sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

Pennywise presses closer, chin almost resting on Richie’s shoulder. “You’ll survive,” the clown says softly. It sounds like a promise. “You always do.”

The reflection flickers. Now Richie is standing in front of the mirror by himself. The Eddie-image is gone. The others are gone. Even Pennywise is gone from the glass. Just Richie. Small. Quiet. Unfunny. And utterly, completely alone. The cracks spread. Not across the mirror, across him. Hairline fractures glowing faintly under his skin like something inside him is trying to get out.

“You’ll outlive them all,” Pennywise murmurs.

The house exhales.

“And no one will stay.”

The mirror doesn’t shatter. It bends inward. Like it’s about to swallow him whole.

“Rich!” The real voice echoes somewhere far down the warped hallway. Eddie appears again in the mirror, but the Eddie in the mirror doesn’t turn toward it. He looks only at Richie and recoils. “Don’t touch me,” the reflection says — not shouting now, quieter, worse. “You’re gonna make me sick.” The word sick lingers, stretching, dripping like something viscous down the glass.

Richie’s breath stutters.

The house hums — low and wet — like pipes rattling behind the walls.

“That’s not what he’d say,” Richie bites out, but it sounds weak even to him.

The reflection hugs itself tighter, shoulders curling inward like Richie is something radioactive. “I should’ve listened,” Mirror-Eddie mutters. “I should’ve known something was wrong with you.” The words land heavier than a scream ever could.

Richie feels it physically — like something sinking behind his ribs. “Shut up,” he says, but it comes out thin.

The wallpaper pulses. From somewhere deep in the house, a laugh trickles through the pipes. Not loud. Just pleased.

Mirror-Eddie’s face shifts subtly — not melting, not monstrous. Just… colder. Eyes flattening. Mouth sharpening at the edges. “You look at me weird,” the reflection says softly. “Like you’re waiting for something.”

Richie’s hands fly to his ears. “Shut UP.”

But the mirror doesn’t need volume, it doesn’t need volume because it knows.

Pennywise’s gloved hands tighten on Richie’s shoulders again — slow, deliberate pressure. The kind meant to ground you, or pin you down. “You hear that?” the clown murmurs gently, chin nearly brushing Richie’s temple. “That’s not me.”

Richie squeezes his eyes shut.

“That’s you.”

The mirror brightens, now it shows something worse. Not Eddie screaming. Not Eddie sneering. Eddie noticing. A flicker of realization crossed his face. A step back. A tiny shift in posture. Not hatred. Just distance. And that distance is unbearable.

“He’ll figure it out,” Pennywise whispers. “They always do.”

The reflection-Eddie swallows.

“Don’t,” Richie croaks.

The clown’s hands slide down, almost comforting — thumbs brushing slow circles into Richie’s collarbones like he’s steadying him. “You joke,” Pennywise says softly. “You say things before anyone else can.”

Mirror-Richie appears now too — standing beside Eddie. Watching him, smiling too widely, and talking too fast. The Eddie-reflection flinches every time Mirror-Richie opens his mouth.

“You think it hides it,” Pennywise breathes.

The mirror shifts again, all the Losers now and they’re laughing. But not at a joke, at him. Richie’s reflection keeps talking — exaggerated, obnoxious, too loud. And one by one, the others start stepping away. Not dramatically, just subtly. A few inches at a time until there’s space around him. A gap. A void.

The house exhales, and dust drifts downward like ash.

“He’ll leave first,” Pennywise murmurs into Richie’s ear. “You know that.”

Richie shakes his head hard, but the clown’s grip keeps him upright. “No, he won’t,” Richie says — and now his voice is breaking whether he wants it to or not. “He wouldn’t.”

Mirror-Eddie turns fully away. Doesn’t sneer. Doesn’t yell. Just walks. The hallway inside the glass stretches as he goes and he doesn’t look back. 

The worst part? He looks relieved.

Richie makes a strangled sound — not quite a sob, not quite a shout.

The clown’s fingers dig in. “You’ll survive it,” Pennywise promises softly.

The mirror ripples like disturbed water. Now Richie stands alone in it. The others are gone. Even Pennywise isn’t visible anymore. Just Richie. His mouth is opening and closing. Trying to speak but nothing is coming out. The cracks spread again — but not across the glass. Across the reflection. Thin white lines etched down his arms, across his chest, up his throat.

“You’re so loud,” Pennywise whispers.

Richie’s lungs feel smaller. The air smells like rust and sugar and something rotting behind drywall.

“So they don’t hear this part.”

Mirror-Richie finally manages to whisper something. It’s almost too quiet to hear. “Please.”

The clown hums approvingly.

And then the mirror does something worse than shattering. It goes still. Blank. No Richie, no Eddie, no one. Just an empty hallway stretching forever.

Pennywise’s hands slide up to cup the sides of Richie’s head. “And when they’re gone,” the clown murmurs, voice soft as a lullaby, “who will you talk to then?”

The house holds its breath. And for one awful second—Richie thinks the answer might be no one.

Pennywise doesn’t laugh this time, he inhales. And when he speaks again—It’s Richie’s voice and it’s perfect. Pitch, rhythm, that half-cracked sarcasm under everything. “Relax, Eds. It’s just a joke.”

Richie freezes. The hands are still on him. The breathing is still wrong. But the voice—The voice is his.

“No,” Richie whispers.

The mirror flickers back to life, but it doesn’t show Pennywise anymore. It shows Richie, standing tall, grinning, confident, unafraid. And behind the glass, that version of him is still talking. “C’mon, guys. You think I’m serious? God, learn to take a joke.” It’s not mocking, it’s casual. Too casual. The hallway shifts and somewhere far down it—

“Richie!”

Eddie’s voice. Real. Frantic. But it doesn’t echo properly. It hits the walls and just…Drops. Like someone threw a blanket over it. “Richie!” This time the name sounds shorter, clipped. Like the end of it got swallowed.

Richie’s chest tightens. “Eds?” He tries to shout back. His mouth opens, air comes out, but no sound follows.

Pennywise — still using Richie’s voice — hums thoughtfully. “Huh,” it says, exactly like Richie would. “That’s weird.” The hands slide away from his shoulders, but he can still feel them. Inside his skin.

The mirror-version of him tilts its head. “You talk so much,” it says. “You’d think someone would notice if it stopped.”

Down the hallway, “Ri—!” The name cuts off completely this time. Like someone hit mute mid-syllable.

The house makes a wet, swallowing noise. The wallpaper ripples. And where Eddie’s voice echoed before, there’s now just thick silence.

Richie’s heartbeat pounds in his ears.

“RICHIE!” Bill’s voice now, but it comes out distorted.

Rish.

Rish?

Then nothing.

The house is learning.

The mirror-Richie smiles wider. “Maybe they don’t need it,” it says. “Maybe you’re easier without it.”

The air grows heavier, pressing against Richie’s lungs. He tries again. “I’m right here!” Nothing, not even a whisper. His throat burns with the effort.

Pennywise — still unseen now, just the voice — steps closer. And when it speaks, it’s softer, more intimate. “Who are you,” it asks in Richie’s own tone, “if you’re not the loud one?”

The mirror changes. Now the Losers stand there again. Bill turns, opens his mouth, but instead of “Richie,” he says nothing. His lips form the shape, but no sound comes. Bev tries next. Ben. Mike. Stan. Each of them mouthing the name, silently. Like a forgotten word. Like something they can’t quite remember. The silence is worse than the insults.

Richie staggers backward.

The hallway stretches again —longer, darker, emptier. His reflection begins to fade at the edges. First his mouth, then his outline.

“You see?” Pennywise says — still him, still perfect. “It’s easier this way.”

The house exhales. The word “Richie” peels itself off the walls like old paint then the letters start sliding downward.

R.

I.

C.

H.

I.

E.

They drop to the floor and sink between the boards. Gone. 

Another call comes from far away— But it’s wrong now. “Hey!” No name attached—just a shout into darkness.

Richie’s hands tremble. He slams his fist against the mirror. This time it doesn’t crack, it absorbs the impact like water. And inside it, the version of him left behind is still talking, still joking, still loud. The others are laughing at that version.

Standing with him. Choosing him. Not the silent one outside the glass.

“You’re afraid of being alone,” Pennywise says gently. Richie’s own voice saying it makes it unbearable. “You’re afraid they’ll forget you.”

The house tightens around him. Walls are inching inward and the ceiling is lowering by degrees.

“Good news,” the voice continues brightly. “They already are.”

Down the hallway—A final attempt. It's soft, desperate. “…chie?” The first half is gone. Just the tail end of something that used to be him. The house swallows that too. And then—There is no more sound of his name at all. Just the slow, steady breathing of the house.

And Richie is standing in it, soundless. The silence doesn’t break, just settles. Thick. Wet. Complete.

Richie’s ears ring from the absence of his own name. He tries to say it, just to prove he can. “My name is—” Nothing, not even air. The house doesn’t allow it. The mirror ripples again.

Inside it, the version of Richie that the others chose — the loud one, the funny one — keeps laughing. But something’s off now. The laugh loops, a fraction too late, a fraction too loud. His smile stretches wider. Wider. The teeth are showing too long. Too many.

Richie stumbles backward. The floorboards dip under his weight like soft cartilage. “Cut it out,” he mouths. The mirror-Richie tilts his head. And then—

His face splits open from the inside. Not violently, not explosively, just a seam parting down the center of his grin.

From that split—

White.

Red.

Orange.

Pennywise unfolds outward, peeling himself free of Richie’s reflection like something stepping out of a costume. But the costume stays behind. Richie’s face remains stretched across Pennywise’s own. Half clown. Half Richie. One eye is bright carnival yellow. The other brown behind cracked lenses. And when it speaks—It’s still Richie’s voice. “Relax, Rich. It’s just a joke.”

The mirror surface bulges. Not glass anymore. Membrane and Breathing. The clown-version presses one gloved hand forward. The surface stretches around it like skin around a bone before it breaks through. Not shattering, parting. Like something being born.

Richie tries to move but his feet don’t respond. It’s like the house has threaded roots through his shoes.

The thing steps fully out of the mirror. Still wearing him. Still smiling his smile. But wrong in the details. His freckles are slightly misplaced. His glasses sit crooked. His hairline recedes and advances in tiny pulses. It circles him slowly, mirroring his posture. “You know what the best part is?” it says in his voice — bright, joking, easy. “They won’t even notice.”

Richie shakes his head hard.

The hallway stretches again — but this time, the mirror behind him shows something new. It shows the Losers at the end of the hall. Real. Looking down at it and calling. 

But the thing beside Richie calls back first. “Guys!” it shouts — perfectly. “I’m over here!”The sound travels. Clean, clear, and unaffected.

Richie opens his mouth to scream—Nothing. The house eats it.

In the mirror, the others see the clown-wearing-Richie. Not him. They start moving toward that version. Choosing it.

The replacement grins wider. “You’re the quiet one now,” it murmurs gently. “See how easy that was?” It steps closer and closer until it’s standing nose-to-nose with him. Same height. Same breath. Only the breath smells like sugar and rot. “You get to stay here,” it whispers. “Where no one can hear you.”

The walls contract slightly. The hallway narrows to coffin-width. The mirror behind them stabilizes. Now it shows only one Richie. The fake one. Laughing with the others and walking away. Leaving the hallway empty. Leaving the real Richie outside the frame.

The thing reaches up and touches Richie’s throat. Two fingers pressing lightly where his voice should be. “Shhh,” it says in perfect imitation.

The house responds. The lights dim. The air thickens further.

The clown begins stepping backward—Not toward the mirror. Toward the far end of the hallway. Toward where Eddie’s voice used to be. And as it moves away, the details sharpen. The freckles align. The glasses sit right. The posture is correct. It becomes him more convincingly with every step. Until the only thing wrong— Is the smile. Too wide. Too patient. It lifts one hand in a casual wave. “Don’t worry,” it calls in Richie’s exact tone. “I’ll take care of them.”

And the house finally lets Richie hear one sound again—Not his name. Just laughter, his laughter. Echoing from somewhere that isn’t him anymore. The hallway is almost too narrow to breathe in now. The walls lean so close that Richie can feel the damp wallpaper brushing his shoulders. At the far end, the other him — the better him — is still walking. Still laughing. Still perfect. 

The sound of it scrapes down Richie’s spine. His own laugh. Bright, careless, believable. It echoes clean and full — everything his throat can’t produce. The fake version pauses near the end of the hall. Turns slightly, not fully, just enough to glance back. The smile widens as if to say: You can’t follow.

Richie tries to move. The floor sucks at his shoes. Sticky. Rooted. His lungs burn. He opens his mouth. Nothing. The silence presses against his teeth like cotton stuffed down his throat.

“C’mon,” the thing calls in Richie’s exact voice, light and teasing. “You gonna let me do all the talking?” It keeps walking. The walls inch closer. 

Richie’s chest tightens — not from the house, not from Pennywise. From something deeper. From the image of the others reaching the end of that hall— Seeing that thing—Believing it. Choosing it.

He tries again. Air. Pain. No sound. His throat feels wrong, like it’s stitched shut from the inside.

The house hums. Satisfied.

And suddenly—Richie understands. It didn’t just steal his voice. It’s waiting for him to stop trying. Because if he stops—He disappears. His hands curl into fists so tight his nails cut crescent moons into his palms. The fake Richie at the end of the hall, fixes his shirt. “Eds!” The voice calls out and Richie can almost picture what it would do when it found Eddie. That easy lean, a casual touch, and that voice. Hisvoice.

Something inside him snaps. Not courage and definitely not confidence. Just fury, raw and animal and desperate. He drags in the biggest breath he can manage, the air tasting like mold and rust and carnival sugar. And he pushes. His throat convulses, pain explodes sharp and immediate — like swallowing glass. The first sound that tears free isn’t a word, it’s a ragged, broken noise. Half a scream and half a choke.

The hallway shudders and the wallpaper ripples violently.

The fake Richie falters mid-step.

Richie forces more air up. His vocal cords feel like they’re shredding. The second attempt is worse. A wet, ripping sensation inside his neck. Something warm spills down the back of his throat, copper. He doesn’t stop, he cannot stop because if he does—The other him keeps walking. He claws at his own chest like he can physically drag the sound out and then—It happens.

One word, not clean, not even full, but loud. “E—!” It tears through him like barbed wire and blood hits his tongue.

The hallway cracks, not the mirror, but the walls.

The fake Richie freezes completely. The laughter cuts off mid-echo.

Richie collapses to one knee, gasping, choking on the metallic taste. But he does it again even though it feels like something is splitting open inside his throat. “EDDIE!” It comes out raw, broken, and barely formed, but it exists.

The house recoils. The silence fractures. The name echoes, not swallowed or muffled. Echoes.

The fake Richie’s smile falters, just for a second and that second is everything. The freckles flicker. The glasses blur. The grin twitches at the corners. “You shouldn’t have done that,” it says — and now the voice cracks between Richie and something older. The hallway spasms violently. The mirror at the far end fractures down the middle. The thing wearing his face jerks unnaturally, like a puppet with its strings pulled too tight.

Richie’s throat burns, every breath feels like inhaling knives, but he laughs. It’s small, wrecked, hoarse beyond recognition, but it’s his. “You don’t,” he rasps, barely audible even to himself, “get to take that.”

The house groans in frustration. The silence doesn’t return. It can’t be because the name was said. And once spoken— It exists.

The fake Richie takes one slow step backward. Its grin splits wider in anger now, not triumph. “You think that saves you?” it snarls — the clown bleeding through the edges of the voice.

Richie lifts his head, blood bright against his teeth. He can’t talk again, at least not yet, but he doesn’t need to. Because the silence isn’t complete anymore.

And somewhere far down the warped hallway—There’s movement. The hallway splits down the middle, not cleanly or evenly. It tears open like wet paper and from the fracture reveals two figures. Both Richie. Both are breathing hard. Both wearing blood at the corners of their mouths. One stands straighter, glasses perfectly aligned, freckles where they belong, smile tight but controlled. The other—Is shaking, knees weak, blood slick down his chin, eyes wide and wrecked and furious.

The mirror collapses into dust behind them. The house goes still, waiting. At the far end of the hall—Footsteps, fast and panicked.

“Richie?!” Eddie bursts around the corner, inhaler clutched tight in his fist, flashlight beam swinging wildly across the walls. It lands on them, stops, freezes. His breath catches. For half a second, the hallway is nothing but the sound of Eddie trying to breathe through fear.

Two Richies, both turning toward him. The steady one lifts a hand casually. “Eds, hey. Relax. I’m fine.” His voice is perfect, smooth, familiar, and unbroken. 

The other Richie tries to speak—It comes out shredded, raw air and blood. “Ed—” It tears his throat open again. He flinches at the pain.

The steady Richie rolls his eyes. “God, he’s dramatic, huh? C’mon, Eddie. You really think I’d look like that?”

Eddie’s flashlight trembles between them. His brain is racing — you can see it. Logic, panic, fear.

The steady Richie takes a small step forward, too calm. “You know me,” he says gently. “You really think I’d let some stupid clown mess me up?” The injured Richie sways on his feet, his hands curl like he wants to reach for Eddie—But he doesn’t. Because he’s afraid that if he does Eddie will step back. And he’s right because Eddie does. Just a fraction, but it’s just enough. The hesitation lands like a gunshot. Richie feels it, deep and sharp in his chest. There it is, the fear, the choice.

The steady Richie smiles wider. “See?” he says softly.

Eddie’s eyes flick to the bleeding one, then back, then back again. His breathing gets worse. “Say something,” Eddie demands, voice cracking.

The steady Richie smirks. “Eds, don’t be stupid.”

The injured Richie forces air up again. It hurts. It hurts so bad. But he doesn’t care. He pushes anyway. “Don’t—” he croaks and it sounds like glass grinding together.

The steady one tilts his head. “Don’t what?”

Eddie’s flashlight shakes harder. His gaze narrows, just slightly.

The steady Richie hasn’t moved closer, hasn’t filled the space with nervous jokes, hasn’t called him Eds again. He just stands there, smiling and waiting.

The injured Richie does the one thing he’s always done, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s stupid. He reaches out, instinctively, toward Eddie like he always does. Not confident. Not calculated. Just automatic.

Eddie notices. It’s tiny, but it’s real.

The steady Richie doesn’t reach. He waits to be chosen. The bleeding one doesn’t.

Eddie swallows, his jaw tightens. “Shut up,” he whispers — not to the real Richie, to the other one.

The steady smile flickers, just barely.

Eddie steps toward the injured Richie. Slow, terrified, but certain now. “You’re him,” Eddie breathes.

The hallway shudders violently.

The steady Richie’s grin splits too wide, too many teeth. “Wrong,” it hisses — and the voice breaks into something deeper, older. Pennywise tears through the illusion like skin ripping. The calm version convulses, limbs bending at wrong angles, face stretching sideways into painted white and red. “You always pick the broken ones,” the clown snarls.

Eddie grabs Richie’s wrist. Firm, real, and warm. “Run,” Eddie gasps. 

Richie nearly collapses when Eddie pulls him, but adrenaline kicks in. They bolt. The hallway lengthens behind them, Pennywise unfolding fully now — too tall, too many joints snapping into place. The walls lunge inward as they sprint. Richie’s throat burns with every breath. Eddie’s grip doesn’t loosen, not once. Even though his flashlight shakes, even though his inhaler is pressing into Richie’s wrist, even though he’s terrified. “Bill!” Eddie screams as they turn a corner that shouldn’t exist. “BILL!”

Behind them—Pennywise laughs. Not Richie’s laugh, not anymore, but it echoes with it. Mocking. And as they run— Richie realizes something that hurts almost as much as his throat: Eddie hesitated. Only for a second, but he did and Richie will never forget that.

They keep running. The hallway keeps rearranging itself — doors appearing where there weren’t any, wallpaper peeling back like skin, floorboards dipping under their weight. Eddie’s grip on Richie’s wrist is iron. Richie stumbles once — vision swimming, throat raw and slick with blood — but Eddie yanks him upright without even looking back. “Move!” Eddie snaps, breath ragged. “Don’t— don’t stop—”

Behind them, something skitters along the ceiling. Too many joints. Too many nails are scraping wood. Then— Silence. Not complete, just enough. And from somewhere close, too close —Richie hears it, his own voice, right behind Eddie’s shoulder. “Eds.” Soft, clear, uninjured. Eddie flinches, just a little. The whisper comes again. “Eddie, wait.” Perfect cadence, perfect tone. The same slight rasp Richie always has when he’s out of breath. It’s not coming from beside him, it’s coming from behind from the dark, from Pennywise. Richie feels it immediately — the way Eddie’s fingers twitch around his wrist as the doubt tries to creep back in. “You picked wrong,” the voice says gently. “He’s slowing you down.”

The hallway narrows again. Eddie’s breathing spikes. Richie forces more air into his wrecked lungs and it hurts so bad he almost blacks out. “Eddie,” the other voice calls again — closer now. “You really think I’d let myself get that messed up?” It even laughs, his laugh, clean and bright, unbroken. Eddie’s grip tightens painfully. Richie knows that hesitation, he felt it before, and he won’t feel it again.

He drags in a breath that tastes like rust and mold and blood, forces it up through torn muscle and burning cartilage. The first sound comes out wrecked. “Hey—” It cracks, he swallows blood, and tries again. “Hey, Eds—” The whisper behind them overlaps him. “Eds.” Identical. For a split second, even Richie hears it — how close it is, how convincing. So he does the only thing Pennywise can’t replicate. He grins, it hurts to move his face, but he does it anyway. And he rasps: “Next time—” he wheezes, voice shredded and uneven, “if there are two of me—” He coughs hard enough to taste copper again. “Pick the hotter one.”

The silence shatters because the voice behind them doesn’t know how to respond. It tries to laugh, but it’s wrong now. Too sharp. Too delayed. Eddie’s head whips toward Richie mid-run and for a split second, their eyes lock. Richie sees it, no doubt, no hesitation. Just him, annoyed, terrified, but certain. “Oh my God,” Eddie gasps, almost hysterical. “Shut up.” It’s fond, furious, real, and that’s enough.

Behind them, Pennywise shrieks — the sound tearing between clown and boy and something older. “You think that proves anything?!” it roars, voice glitching between tones.

Richie cough-laughs. It sounds awful and broken, but it’s his. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Kinda does.”

The whisper tries one last time, soft and right at Eddie’s ear. “Eddie.” But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look back. “Nice try,” he spits. They turn a corner sharply, nearly colliding with a warped doorway that wasn’t there before. Somewhere ahead—A distant shout. Bill. Real. Alive.

The house lurches violently, walls snapping back into place like it’s frustrated.

Richie’s legs feel like jelly, his throat feels flayed open, but Eddie’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist and he’s not letting go. Not hesitating. Not choosing again.

Behind them, the echo of Richie’s stolen voice finally distorts into a snarl and then fades. Swallowed by the house that failed to keep it.

Richie leans closer to Eddie as they run, breath ragged. “…Still funny,” he mutters hoarsely.

Eddie shoots him a look. “You are literally bleeding.”

Richie manages a ghost of a grin. “Yeah,” he wheezes. “But like. Charismatically.” And even though Eddie didn’t need the proof—Richie did and the house can’t take that from him.

They don’t find Bill, but they find a door that shouldn’t be there. Half-hanging off rusted hinges, paint peeling in long strips like old sunburned skin, but it’s open and the room beyond it is small. Still. Quiet.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate. He yanks Richie inside and slams the door shut. It closes too easily. The noise of the hallway cuts off instantly. No skittering. No laughter. No stretching walls. Just silence. Real silence, the kind that feels normal. They both stand there for a second, bent over, hands on their knees, trying to breathe.

Richie coughs hard and it sounds worse now that it’s not swallowed by chaos. Wet. Raw.

Eddie spins on him immediately. “Let me see.”

Richie waves him off weakly. “It’s just— y’know. Casual internal bleeding.”

“Shut up.” Eddie’s hands are shaking, but they’re steady when they touch Richie’s jaw, tilting his face toward the dim light filtering through a grimy window. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth, on his chin, dried in thin lines down his neck. Eddie swallows hard. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters, voice thinner than usual.

Richie tries to smirk and it mostly works. “You picked me.” The words are rough, scraped out of him.

Eddie freezes for half a second then looks up sharply. “Of course I picked you.” No hesitation now, no doubt, just annoyed certainty.

Richie studies his face, looking for it. The second, the flicker, and it’s not there anymore.

Eddie squeezes his wrist — still hasn’t let go. “You think I don’t know you?” Eddie demands quietly.

Richie’s throat tightens — and not from injury this time. He shrugs like it’s nothing like it didn’t almost destroy him. “Yeah, well. He had better posture.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t let go.

They slide down the wall together, backs against peeling wallpaper. The room smells different from the hallway. Less rot and more dust. Still wrong — but quieter, safer. For a moment, Richie tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. His throat throbs with every swallow.

Eddie digs through his pockets, a frantic habit kicking in. “I don’t have gauze,” he mutters. “I don’t have anything. You’re not supposed to scream like that— you could’ve—”

“I’m good,” Richie rasps.

“You’re not good.”

“Okay, I’m like. Medium.”

Eddie huffs despite himself.

The tension cracks just slightly. The room feels small but contained like a pause between waves.

Richie’s breathing starts to even out.

Eddie’s grip loosens just a fraction.

And that’s when it happens. Not loud. Not dramatic. The window behind them fogs over. From the inside. Slowly. As if something just exhaled against it. Neither of them notice at first.

Eddie is still staring at Richie’s throat. “You scared me,” he mutters, too quiet to be defensive.

Richie’s eyes flick to him, soft. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The wallpaper behind Richie’s head shifts, just slightly. The faded flowers stretch taller, thinner, their stems elongating like fingers. The fog on the window begins to trace shapes. Not letters or words, just lines. Long. Vertical. Like bars.

Richie swallows. The room feels— Smaller.

Eddie finally looks up, sees the window, and freezes. “Richie.”

The door behind them clicks, not the knob turning the lock sliding into place on its own. The air changes, thickening. That quiet, normal silence? It curdles. The walls bow inward, not violently, but gradually. The wallpaper peels back in strips, revealing dark gaps between the boards. From those gaps—Whispers. Not clear enough to hear, but loud enough to know they’re there. The window fog clears in one sharp swipe and in the glass—They see it. Not Pennywise standing behind them, not yet, just the reflection. But the reflection is wrong. The room in the glass is wider, the space between them slightly larger, and in that reflection—

Eddie’s hand is no longer holding Richie’s. It’s hovering like he’s about to let go. Richie feels it before he sees it.

The house isn’t done, it just changed tactics. The floor beneath them dips suddenly, a low groan rolls through the boards from somewhere below—a slow, deliberate knock. Once. Twice. Three times. The walls inhale and the door begins to bulge inward—Like something on the other side is leaning against it. The knock beneath the floorboards comes again, closer and directly under them.

Eddie’s fingers tighten around Richie’s wrist. “Don’t move,” Eddie whispers.

The boards beneath Richie’s shoes soften first. He feels it — a sag, a subtle give. “Eds—” he starts.

The crack is instant, violent. The wood between them splits with a sound like bone snapping. The floor tears open in a jagged line right between their knees.

Eddie yelps — the sound high and terrified — as his weight shifts backward. Richie lunges forward on instinct, but far too late. The boards under Eddie collapse entirely. He drops, his hand still locked in Richie’s, and the world jerks sideways. Richie slams flat on his stomach, ribs hitting the floor hard enough to knock what little air he had left out of him. His throat screams in protest, but he doesn’t let go. Eddie dangles below the gap — one arm caught in Richie’s grip, the other flailing for purchase against splintered beams.

Below them—Not darkness. The kitchen. Far lower than it should be. Warped and wrong. Cabinets hanging at crooked angles, a table directly beneath Eddie, broken with one leg already snapped inward like it’s waiting.

“Richie!” Eddie gasps, his inhaler skitters across the floor below, lost.

Richie digs his free hand into the floorboards, splinters biting into his palm. He pulls and his arms shake instantly. He isn’t steady, he isn’t strong, his throat is shredded, his body wrecked, his vision still swimming. “Hold on,” he croaks — barely sounds at all.

Eddie tries to push up with his free hand, but there’s nowhere to brace. The boards crumble under his fingers like wet cardboard. The house groans around them, satisfied.

Richie pulls harder, his shoulders burn and his elbows tremble. He can feel Eddie’s weight dragging him closer to the edge. “C’mon,” Richie whispers hoarsely. “C’mon, Eds, you’re like— ninety pounds, I’ve lifted heavier textbooks—” It’s weak, desperate, and just barely a joke.

Eddie tries to help by kicking upward, but the movement twists his body wrong. Then there’s a sickening crack. Sharp and clean. He screams. The sound rips through Richie worse than the splitting of wood did. His arm bends at an angle it shouldn’t and his grip falters. “Don’t let go!” Eddie gasps, voice already shaking with shock.

Richie pulls with everything he has left. His muscles give a violent tremor and he can feel it, that horrible moment when strength runs out. It’s not dramatic or heroic in any way, just—empty. “I’ve got you,” Richie lies. But his fingers are slick now, blood from his torn throat drips down his chin, onto his hand. His palm slides, just a fraction. Eddie sees it and their eyes lock. For a second—It’s quiet. No clown, no whispers, no shifting walls. Just them. Eddie’s expression flickers — fear, pain—and something else. Trust. He trusts him, that’s the worst part.

Richie pulls again, his vision blacks at the edges, his injured throat convulses, his arms buckle, and his hand—

Slips.

It’s not dramatic, it’s not slow motion, it just—

Slips.

Eddie falls. The scream cuts off halfway down as he crashes through the warped kitchen space below. The broken table explodes under him, wood splintering upward. The impact sound is sickening. Richie scrambles forward, ignoring the splinters cutting into his chest. He peers over the edge.

Below Eddie lies crumpled on the shattered table. One arm twisted wrong and he’s not moving.

“Eddie—” It’s barely a breath.

No response.

The kitchen flickers like an old film reel. For one horrible second Richie thinks—He’s dead. Then Eddie’s chest rises once, shallow and alive, but unconscious. Relief slams into Richie so hard he almost collapses. “Okay,” he whispers brokenly. “Okay, you’re— you’re okay—”

The floor shifts, the split boards are knitting back together, slowly and methodically. Like muscle sealing over a wound.

“No— no-no-no—” Richie claws at the edge of the gap. The wood fuses beneath his fingers. He slams his fist into it. “STOP!” The last thing he sees is Eddie unmoving on the wrecked table, arm bent wrong, and blood at his temple. Alone.

The floor seals shut completely, smooth and unbroken like nothing ever happened. Like Eddie never fell. Like Richie never held him at all. The room is silent again. No kitchen below, no crack, no sign. Just four walls closing in. Richie kneels there, shaking. His hands are empty. His throat is ruined. And this time—There is no hesitation, no doubt. Eddie chose him and Richie still wasn’t enough.

Richie stays on his knees, his hands pressed flat to the boards as if he pushes hard enough, they’ll give again. They don’t.

The room is too quiet, no shifting walls and no creaking beams. Just the sound of his breathing, ragged and wet and wrong. His hands are still curled like they’re holding something, but they’re empty. He stares at them, flexes his fingers watching as they tremble.

And then, very softly, right beside his ear, in his voice. “You weren’t strong enough.”

Richie doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, because he knows that tone. It’s not loud, not theatrical, it’s conversational. Casual. Like he’s just stating a fact. “You tried,” the voice continues gently. “Gold star for effort.”

Richie’s jaw clenches. “Shut up,” he rasps.

The voice shifts position so now it’s in front of him, then behind, then inside the walls. Still him. Still perfect. “You felt it,” it says. “That second.” The boards beneath his hands feel colder. “When your arms gave out.”

Richie slams his fist against the floor, the impact sends pain up his wrist. “Leave me alone.”

A soft chuckle, his chuckle. “You said that before.”

The wallpaper peels slightly near the ceiling revealing the darkness behind it.

“You weren’t strong enough,” the voice repeats, almost thoughtfully this time. “And he trusted you anyway.”

That hits, it sinks in deep and Richie’s throat tightens. Not from the injury, but from something worse.

“He looked at you like you could do it.”

The house shifts with a slow, satisfied creak.

“And you couldn’t.”

Richie’s breathing turns uneven. “No,” he whispers.

“Oh yes,” the voice says brightly. “You felt it slip.”

His palm tingles where Eddie’s hand had been like the ghost of it is still there.

“You can’t even hold onto him,” the voice continues. “How are you going to protect him?”

Richie squeezes his eyes shut. “Shut up.”

The temperature in the room drops and the voice changes. Just slightly, no longer mocking now. Excited. “Well,” it says, almost playfully, “if you’re done…” A pause. Then—

“I’m going to have fun with Eddie instead.”

The words land heavily. Deliberate. Measured.

Richie’s eyes snap open. The room is empty, but the house isn’t quiet anymore.

From somewhere below there’s a faint thud followed by the scrape of wood. Then a weak, pained inhale.

Eddie. Alive. Conscious. Alone.

The voice hums. “He’s awake.”

Richie lurches to his feet too fast and the room tilts violently.

“You stay here,” the voice says sweetly. “You’ve done enough.” The floor beneath him pulses a slow, rhythmic thud almost like a heartbeat. “He’s hurt,” the voice continues, almost clinical. “That arm looked bad.”

Richie staggers toward the center of the room.

“There are so many ways to scare someone like him,” the voice muses. “So many little fears.” The wallpaper twitches. “You think he’ll call your name?” That cuts deeper than anything else. “And what happens when you can’t answer?”

Richie’s chest heaves, his throat feels torn open again. “I said leave him alone.”

The voice laughs, not loud, pleased. “You couldn’t even hold on.” Another distant crash from below, wood splintering, and a sharp cry cut short. Richie’s entire body goes rigid. The house vibrates with anticipation. “You failed him,” the voice whispers now — softer than breath. “Let me see what he does without you.”

Something inside Richie ignites. Not fear, not shame. Something hotter, fiercer. He spins toward the door.

It’s gone. Just wall now. Smooth. Sealed.

The voice sighs contentedly. “You’re not enough,” it murmurs in his tone. “But I am.”

From below a weak, desperate sound. “Rich—” Cut off as the house swallows it whole.

Richie’s hands curl into fists so tight his knuckles go white. His throat is shredded, sis body exhausted, his arms useless. But the one thing Pennywise couldn’t erase—The name. He already forced that back into existence once so he can do it again. 

He drops to his knees again, not carefully this time. Hard. The impact rattles his teeth. His fingers dig into the seam where the boards had split open before, but there’s no crack anymore. No gap. Just smooth wood, sealed and perfect like Eddie never fell.

Richie hooks his nails into the tiny space between planks and pulls. Nothing. He pulls harder and his nails bend back. He doesn’t stop. “Come on,” he breathes. “Come on, come on—” The wood doesn’t move. He wedges his fingertips in deeper, scraping skin against splinters he can’t even see. His nails catch, tear, and pain shoots up his hands. He yanks anyway and a broken, animal sound rips out of him. “EDDIE!” The name shreds his throat raw. It echoes—but wrong. Thin and small.

The house doesn’t answer, doesn’t creak or shake or laugh. It doesn’t react at all and that’s worse.

He slams his fist against the boards.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Skin splits across his knuckles. Blood streaks into the seams of the floor. “EDDIE!” he screams again, voice cracking so violently it barely sounds human. Still nothing.

The house remains blank, unimpressed, and unaffected.

His fingers slip in blood as he claws at the wood, trying to pry it apart, trying to wedge them open like he can peel the house back with his bare hands. His nails rip further one bends halfway off. He doesn’t notice. “Please,” he chokes. “Please.” Not to the house, not to the clown, but to Eddie. Like if he just says it loud enough—

The floor stays solid, unbroken, and untouched. 

He presses his forehead to the boards. Breathing hard and his hands were shaking. He drags his fingers down the wood again, scraping skin, digging into nothing. “Eddie,” he tries again, but it comes out wrecked, barely a sound. His throat feels torn open and still—nothing.

The house doesn’t even creak. It doesn’t need to. It already took what it wanted.

A hand grabs his shoulders. Hard.

Richie thrashes instantly. “GET OFF—”

“R-Richie!” The stutter cuts through the haze like a blade.

Bill.

Richie twists around, wild-eyed.

Bill’s face is pale, sweaty, and panicked. He takes in the blood first, then Richie’s hands, then the floor. “What the hell are you doing?!” Bill demands, voice cracking.

Richie tries to turn back to the boards. “It’s not open,” he says frantically. “It was open—he fell—he fell through—”

Bill grabs him under the arms and physically hauls him back.

Richie fights him. Actually fights him. “He’s down there!” Richie shouts, voice breaking into something hoarse and ugly. “It opened up, Bill, I had him— I had him and I—” His voice fractures, he can’t finish it.

Bill’s grip tightens. “Richie—stop. Stop.”

Richie goes rigid. “He broke his arm,” he whispers. “I think he—he hit the table—”

Bill looks at the floor and it’s smooth, solid. Just old wood, no crack, no break, no sign that anything happened. Bill swallows. “Where?” he asks quietly.

Richie stares at the boards like they betrayed him. “Right here.”

Bill kneels, presses his palm to the floor like he’s checking for heat. There’s nothing. He looks back up at Richie and something is terrified in Bill’s eyes. Not doubt or disbelief, but the realization that he doesn’t know where Eddie is. “Wh-when did this happen?” Bill asks.

Richie’s hands are shaking so hard now that the blood drips onto the wood. “I tried to pull him up,” he says. “I tried.”

Bill grabs his wrists gently this time. Not restraining, more grounding then anything. “Hey. Hey.”

Richie’s breathing is too fast. “He slipped,” Richie whispers. “He slipped because I—” His throat closes again.

Bill’s expression hardens. Fear. Real fear. “Okay,” Bill says carefully. “Okay. We’re gonna find him.”

Richie looks back at the floor one more time. It doesn’t move, doesn’t react. It won’t even give him the satisfaction of being haunted. It just sits there like Eddie was never there at all.

Bill pulls Richie to his feet and he stumbles. He looks smaller now. Not physically, but something in him folded in on itself.

Bill keeps hold of him, firm. “Come on,” Bill says.

Richie lets himself be led away from the spot. But as they move the house creaks. Soft and satisfied.

The two move fast. Too fast for how uneven the floors are and too fast for how the hallway keeps stretching and narrowing like it’s breathing. Bill keeps one hand locked around Richie’s wrist, not dragging, just anchoring. “St-start from the beginning,” Bill says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Wh-what happened?”

Richie’s laugh is wrong, thin, and airless. “He— it— the mirror—” His hands twitch like he’s still clawing wood. “It made him say things.”

Bill swallows. “Say wh-what?”

Richie doesn’t answer at first. They pass a doorway that definitely wasn’t there before and the wallpaper peels like old scabs. “I don’t know,” Richie says too quickly. “Stuff. Stupid stuff.”

Bill glances at him.

Richie’s voice is shredded. His hands are bleeding openly now.

“Richie,” Bill presses. “Wh-what did it make him say?”

Richie’s jaw tightens. “He said he hated me.” The words fall flat like he’s reporting the weather.

Bill’s grip tightens just slightly. “And then?” Bill asks.

“The floor split,” Richie says. “Kitchen. I had him. I had him and I—” His breathing spikes.

Bill slows them down. “Y-you tried,” Bill says firmly. “You tried.”

Richie shakes his head violently. “No. No, I wasn’t strong enough.”

The hallway narrows and the ceiling dips lower because the house is listening now.

Bill’s expression hardens. “That’s not—”

“It said that,” Richie blurts suddenly.

Bill goes quiet.

“It said I wasn’t strong enough,” Richie continues, words tumbling over each other. “It said he trusted me and I couldn’t even hold onto him and now it’s gonna have fun with him and—” His voice cracks, hard.

Bill stops walking. “Wh-what do you mean,” he asks carefully, “have fun with him?”

Richie laughs again and it’s uglier this time. “You know what I mean.”

The lights flicker and the hallway bends slightly to the left. They don’t remember turning.

Bill steps closer.  “Richie,” he says, lower now. “Look at me.”

Richie doesn’t, he’s staring at his hands like they’re still failing him. “It’s my fault,” he mutters.

“Hey.” Bill grabs his shoulders, forcing eye contact. “It’s not.”

Richie’s eyes are glassy. “It is,” he insists. “It knew. It knew that was worse.”

“W-worse than what?”

Richie hesitates and that hesitation is loud.

Bill sees it.

Richie swallows. “It knows I—”

The house groans, long and low, like it’s stretching awake.

Bill’s head snaps toward the sound. “Richie,” he urges. “It knows you what?”

Richie’s breathing is shaking now. “It knows I care about him more than—”

The scream tears through the house. High. Raw. Painful. “RICHIE!” The sound is unmistakable. Eddie. Not distorted, not mimicked, real. Agony laced through every syllable.

The walls shudder violently, dust raining from the ceiling.

Richie goes white, Bill’s grip is the only reason he doesn’t collapse. “EDDIE!” Richie screams back, voice shredding further.

This time the house answers. The scream echoes, but not correctly. It multiplies, twisting. Suddenly it’s coming from everywhere. Above them, below them, behind the walls. Eddie is screaming over and over.

Bill grabs Richie’s face. “Focus!”

But Richie is already moving, already tearing down the hallway toward the sound.

Bill swears and runs after him.

The hallway elongates as they sprint. The scream cuts off abruptly. Silence slams down. Then—A soft, broken sob somewhere ahead.

Richie stumbles to a stop, heart in his throat.

The house shifts around them, satisfied, because it got what it wanted. Richie finally said it, out loud, that he cares. And now the house knows exactly where to cut next.

The sobbing isn’t echoing anymore. It’s real and wet and desperate. “HELP! PLEASE— I CAN’T—” It’s Eddie. It’s absolutely Eddie.

Richie’s chest caves in at the sound of it. He bolts, Bill right behind him. They nearly crash through the doorway when it finally appears — the kitchen, but wrong. Longer. Stretched. The cabinets sag like melting wax. And there—On the broken remains of the kitchen table.

Eddie.

Pinned.

Pennywise crouches over him, not in full monstrous form. Almost human-sized. One gloved hand grips Eddie’s jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, squishing his face so his mouth is forced open slightly. Tears streak down his temples into his hair and his broken arm is twisted at a sick angle against his chest. Pennywise’s other hand trails lazily along Eddie’s shoulder, down his sleeve, not hurting him — just there. Too close and too familiar, like he’s inspecting something fragile.

Eddie makes a choked sound when he sees Richie. “R-Richie—”

The clown’s fingers press tighter into his cheeks. “Ah-ah,” Pennywise murmurs softly. “We’re talking.”

Eddie whimpers.

Richie freezes in the doorway. Everything in him goes ice cold.

Pennywise tilts his head, smiling that awful, splitting smile. “Oh good,” the clown says brightly. “You brought backup.”

Bill steps up beside Richie. His voice trembles but he forces it out. “L-let him go.”

Pennywise sighs dramatically. “I was just getting to the fun part.” His thumb brushes just under Eddie’s eye, smearing a tear across his cheek.

Eddie flinches like he’s been burned.

Richie sees red. “Get your hands off him.”

Pennywise’s eyes slide to Richie slowly, amused. “Oh?” he hums. “But he’s so soft.”

Eddie makes a broken sound in his throat.

“I don’t like that one,” Pennywise continues conversationally, waving a finger loosely at Richie. “He thinks too much. Worries too much. Always waiting for something bad to happen.” The clown leans closer to Eddie’s ear. “And look,” he whispers loud enough for them to hear, “it did.”

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. “No no no no—”

Pennywise presses Eddie’s face harder into his palm. “Your arm hurts,” he coos. “Your friends left you. You can’t move. You can’t fight. What happens when they don’t get here in time?”

“They’re here!” Richie snaps.

Pennywise grins wider. “Yes,” he agrees. “But are they enough?” His eyes flick down to Richie’s bloodied hands. “Oh,” he says softly. “You tried.”

Richie’s stomach drops.

Eddie looks at Richie then, not accusing, just scared.

Pennywise’s fingers slide from Eddie’s jaw to the side of his neck — not squeezing, just resting there. A reminder. “I wonder,” the clown muses, “if he knows why you screamed his name like that.”

Richie steps forward, but Bill grabs his arm instinctively. “Don’t,” Bill hisses.

Pennywise’s eyes light up. “There it is,” he purrs. “That look.” He tilts Eddie’s head toward Richie. “Go on,” Pennywise whispers into Eddie’s ear. “Ask him why he came back.” 

Eddie’s breath stutters, he doesn’t ask. He just looks at Richie like he already knows and that cracks something open in Richie’s chest.

“Let him go,” Richie says again, but this time it’s not a yell. It’s steady, shaking, but steady. “You want me?” Richie continues. “You’ve been in my head all day. So let him go.”

Pennywise studies him, head tilted and smile stretching slowly. “And if I don’t?”

Richie steps forward anyway even with Bill trying to hold him back and even with his hands ruined and his voice torn apart. “Then you deal with me,” Richie says.

The kitchen lights flicker violently. Pennywise’s smile falters just slightly because that wasn’t fear. It wasn’t bravado either. It was a choice.

Eddie makes a small, desperate sound. “Richie, don’t—”

Pennywise’s fingers tighten just enough on Eddie’s neck to silence him. The clown leans down until his face is inches from Eddie’s. “You see?” he murmurs. “He thinks he can save you.” Then Pennywise looks back at Richie. “Prove it.”

Richie moves before he even thinks. It isn’t strategic or smart, it’s instinct. He lunges. A broken, furious sound ripping from his ruined throat as he throws himself at Pennywise.

The clown doesn’t even look surprised. He just smiles wider. Richie’s shoulder slams into him—and it’s like hitting something half-solid. Half-there. Cold and wrong. Pennywise barely shifts. Still crouched over Eddie and still smiling. “Oh, Richie,” he sighs. “Still trying to be strong enough?”

Richie swings, wild and desperate. His blood-slick knuckles cut through the air—and this time his fist connects, but it feels like punching soaked fabric like the shape of something, not the thing itself.

Pennywise’s head tilts slightly with the impact then slowly turns back, completely unbothered.

Bill rushes forward and grabs Richie around the middle, hauling him back before Pennywise can retaliate. “Stop!” Bill shouts.

Richie fights him. “LET GO OF ME!”

“Richie, stop!”

Pennywise laughs softly. “There it is,” he purrs. “Anger. That’s good. That’s easy.”

Eddie is still pinned, still trembling.

Bill plants himself between Richie and Pennywise. He’s breathing hard and his face is pale, but something in his eyes shifts. Not fear. Focus. He looks around the kitchen, at the sagging cabinets, the stretched walls, the warped light then he looks straight at Pennywise. “This isn’t real,” Bill says.

Pennywise blinks then smiles again. “Oh?”

Bill’s voice shakes — but he pushes through it. “It’s a h-house,” he says. “Just wood and nails and paint.”

The walls creak louder, threatening.

Bill doesn’t look away. “You’re m-making it look like this,” he continues. “Y-you’re making us see it this way.”

Pennywise’s fingers tighten slightly on Eddie’s shoulder. The only tell.

Bill steps forward. “One clown,” he says. “In an old house.” The lights flicker violently. Richie’s breathing is ragged behind him. “Y-you need us scared,” Bill says. “You need us to believe it.”

The air shifts, the kitchen seems to pulse.

Pennywise’s grin stretches thinner. “Oh, I don’t need anything,” he murmurs.

“Yes, you do,” Bill snaps. The stutter almost disappears under the force of it. “You’re not strong,” Bill says. “You just m-mess with our heads so you can feel bigger.”

The wallpaper peels back slightly like the house is straining. 

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut.

Pennywise’s face twitches, just for a second.

Bill takes another step forward. “You’re not holding him down,” Bill says firmly. “He’s just scared.”

The clown’s hand presses harder into Eddie’s jaw—but now it looks less solid. The edges blur. Eddie gasps.

“You’re not real,” Bill repeats. “None of this is.” The cabinets stop sagging, just slightly. The floorboards beneath Richie’s feet feel steadier.

Pennywise’s smile falters. “You’re very brave,” the clown says softly, but there’s something sharp underneath it now.

Bill grabs Richie’s wrist. “Tell him,” Bill says quietly.

Richie’s chest heaves and Pennywise looks at him, waiting. He swallows, voice wrecked, but he forces it out. “You’re just a stupid clown,” he rasps. “In a stupid house.”

The lights flicker. Harder. Pennywise’s grip on Eddie glitches — fingers phasing slightly at the edges.

Eddie’s breath hitches.

Bill nods. “That’s it,” he says.

The house groans, but it sounds strained now. Pennywise’s face twitches — smile fighting to stay in place. “You don’t believe that,” he says softly to Richie.

Richie steps forward despite himself. “I do,” he lies.

Pennywise’s eyes narrow because he hears the crack in it.

But Bill doesn’t let the silence grow. “It doesn’t matter if we’re scared,” Bill says. “You can’t hurt us unless we believe you can.”

The clown’s hand slips further and Eddie’s shoulder jerks free slightly. Pennywise snarls, just a flicker, a flash of something older. Hungrier.

The kitchen lights explode and darkness slams down for one breathless second. When they flicker back on—Pennywise is gone.

Eddie collapses into Richie like his strings were cut.

Richie catches him fully this time Both arms around him, too tight, like if he loosens his grip even a little the house will steal him again. Eddie makes a sharp sound when his broken arm shifts and Richie immediately adjusts. “Sorry— sorry, okay, okay— don’t move that one— don’t—” His voice is shredded raw, barely holding together.

Eddie’s breathing is fast, too fast. Short, panicked pulls of air that hitch halfway in. “R-Richie,” he gasps.

“I’m here,” Richie says immediately, too quick, too desperate.

Bill is already moving, scanning the floor, the counters, the warped cabinets. “His inhaler,” Bill mutters. “Wh-where is it? Eddie, wh-where?”

Eddie shakes his head weakly. “I—I dropped it— I don’t—” His breath stutters.

Richie feels it against his collarbone. Fast. Shallow. Wrong.

“Hey,” Richie says, softer now. He shifts, ignoring the sting in his torn hands, and grips Eddie’s face gently between his palms Careful of the bruises Pennywise left. “Hey.”

Eddie tries to look away. Richie doesn’t let him, Not forceful, just steady. “Look at me.”

Eddie’s eyes flick up. Wide. Glassy. Still wet.

Richie’s glasses are slightly crooked from earlier — there’s blood drying along the frame where it slid down his temple. He probably looks insane, but right now He couldn’t care less.

“I’m here,” Richie repeats.

Eddie’s breathing keeps skipping. “You let go,” Eddie whispers before he can stop himself. The words are small, not accusing, but afraid.

Richie flinches like he’s been hit. “I know,” he says. Honest, Painfully honest. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so—” His voice cracks again, He swallows it down. “But I’m here now,” Richie says, firmer. “Okay? I didn’t go anywhere.”

Eddie’s good hand fists in Richie’s shirt Like he’s testing it, making sure it’s solid. “You’re real?” Eddie asks. It’s barely audible.

That almost breaks Richie. He nods quickly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Eds. Still devastatingly handsome. Still wearing these stupid glasses. Still me.”

A weak, shaky exhale leaves Eddie, not quite a laugh But close.

Richie leans his forehead gently against Eddie’s. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly.

Behind them, Bill slams a cabinet shut. “Found it!” He stumbles back toward them, inhaler in hand. It looks ridiculously small, too small for everything that just happened.

Bill drops to his knees beside them. “Here. Here.” Richie helps steady Eddie while Bill presses the inhaler into his shaking hand.

Eddie takes one inhale, then another. His breaths are still uneven, but they’re deeper now, less frantic.

Bill watches closely. “Y-you okay?” he asks.

Eddie nods weakly. “Arm hurts,” he mutters.

Richie lets out a shaky exhale that sounds almost like a laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.” His hands are still cradling Eddie’s face Like he forgot to let go.

Eddie notices, but he doesn’t pull away.

The kitchen is quiet, too quiet. No laughter, no creaking. Just the three of them breathing.

Richie studies Eddie’s face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s checking for cracks. “You with me?” Richie asks softly.

Eddie rolls his eyes faintly. “I’m not dead, idiot.”

Richie’s mouth twitches. There it is. That’s Eddie, sharp, annoyed, and alive. He nods once, hard. “Good,” he says. Because he doesn’t trust his voice to say anything bigger than that.

Bill glances around the kitchen. The walls look normal now, mostly, but the air feels heavy. Like the house is holding its breath. Waiting for them to relax.

Richie doesn’t let go of Eddie. Not even a little, and Eddie doesn’t tell him to. Instead, he takes another slow pull from the inhaler. His breathing evens out, not perfect, but better. Richie is still holding his face, still too close, still staring like if he blinks Eddie might disappear.

Bill shifts beside them, scanning the room again. “We s-should move,” he says quietly.

Eddie nods weakly And then his eyes drop to Richie’s hands. They’re wrapped around Eddie’s jaw and neck Smearing faint streaks of red along his skin. Richie’s knuckles are split open, skin torn, nails cracked, one half-lifted. Blood dried in the seams and Fresh blood still welling. Eddie freezes and Richie notices immediately. “What?” he asks.

Eddie grabs Richie’s wrist. Careful, too careful. “Your hands,” He breathes.

Richie glances down like he forgot they existed. “Oh.” He tries to pull them back casually, but Eddie doesn’t let him. “They’re fine,” Richie says quickly. “It’s just— you know. Floor versus flesh. Floor won.”

Eddie’s eyes are wide, not grossed out, not recoiling, just horrified. “You tore them open,” he says.

Richie shrugs, trying for flippant. “Eh. I’ve had worse. Remember that time I fell off Stan’s bike and skinned my entire—”

“Richie.” Eddie’s voice shakes And that’s new.

Richie stops joking.

Eddie lifts one of Richie’s hands closer to his face, examines it like it’s the broken thing in the room. “You could’ve broken your fingers,” Eddie says. “You could’ve gotten splinters. You don’t even know what’s in this house—”

Richie blinks. Wait. “Eds,” he says slowly. “You fell through a floor.”

Eddie ignores that completely. “You were digging at wood with your bare hands,” Eddie continues, spiraling faster. “You could get an infection. You don’t have anything to clean this with. There’s probably rust, mold—”

Bill looks between them, confused.

Richie stares at Eddie.

“You’re bleeding,” Eddie says, voice tight. “That’s a lot of blood.”

Richie looks down at the faint smears on Eddie’s shirt. “…You’re covered in it.”

Eddie doesn’t even glance at it. “I don’t care.”

That stops both of them. Richie blinks. Bill’s head tilts slightly. “You don’t—” Richie starts.

“I don’t care,” Eddie repeats, sharper. “It’s your blood.” Like that explains everything.

Richie’s brain short-circuits for a second. “You literally carry hand sanitizer in your pocket,” Richie says weakly.

“You were ripping your hands apart!” Eddie snaps back, His voice cracking at the end. And there it is, not disgust, not fear of germs, the Fear of Richie being hurt.

Richie goes very still. “Oh,” he says quietly.

Eddie swallows hard. “You could’ve lost a nail,” he mutters. “That one looks bad.”

Richie looks at the half-torn nail Then back at Eddie And something warm and stunned flickers across his face. “Well,” Richie says, slipping into a terrible British accent, “if it falls off, I’m sure Dr. K will prescribe me a lollipop and tell me to walk it off, won’t he?” It’s rough. His voice cracks halfway through, but he commits to it anyway.

Eddie stares at him. For half a second—Then lets out a shaky, unwilling huff of air. “Your accent is getting worse,” Eddie mutters automatically.

Bill actually snorts and Richie grins faintly. “Oh, forgive me,” he continues in the accent. “Terribly sorry, Edward. You’ve contracted—” he squints dramatically at his hand, “—floor disease.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he’s still holding Richie’s wrist and inspecting the damage. “You’re an idiot,” Eddie says softly.

Richie’s grin fades into something gentler. “Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”

Eddie carefully adjusts Richie’s fingers Like he’s afraid they’ll break further. “You need to wrap these,” Eddie says. “Or at least stop bleeding on everything.”

“You’re bleeding too,” Bill points out gently.

Eddie waves that off immediately. “My arm’s already broken,” he says. “It can’t get more broken.”

Richie stares at him. “You are unbelievable,” He breathes.

Eddie looks up. “What?”

Richie shakes his head slightly. Nothing. Everything.

Bill watches the two of them. Something understanding flickers across his face, but he doesn’t say it.

Eddie tightens his grip on Richie’s wrist. “You’re not digging at floors anymore,” he says firmly.

Richie’s mouth twitches. “No promises.”

Eddie glares.

Richie sighs. “…Fine. Minimal digging.”

That almost earns another huff of laughter.

The house creaks softly above them. Not loud, not violent, just a reminder. They’re not safe, not yet

Bill is the first to move. “We h-have to go,” he says quietly.

The kitchen feels wrong again, like it’s watching.

Richie nods once. “Okay. Okay, yeah. We’re going.” He shifts carefully, sliding one arm around Eddie’s back while avoiding the broken one. “On three,” Richie says softly. “We’re gonna stand up. Don’t be dramatic about it.”

“I’m not dramatic,” Eddie snaps automatically. His voice is still shaky.

Richie smiles faintly.

“One,” Bill counts.

Eddie braces.

“Two.”

Richie tightens his grip.

“Three.”

They lift.

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath when his arm jostles, His knees wobble. Richie holds him upright, chest to shoulder. Bill steadies him from the other side. For a second—They’re standing. Together. Alive.

Richie exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. “See?” he murmurs near Eddie’s ear. “We’re good. We’re getting out. Piece of cake. Five-star Yelp review for haunted murder house.”

Eddie would normally argue about the sarcasm. Instead, he leans into Richie just a little more. “Shut up,” he mutters.

Bill takes a careful step toward the doorway. The hallway beyond looks normal, narrow, old, crooked, but normal. They take one step, then another And that’s when the house inhales, It’s subtle at first. A long, low creak that rolls through the walls. The cabinets behind them tremble.

Richie freezes. “Don’t,” he mutters under his breath.

The floorboards shift slightly beneath their feet. Not breaking, not splitting, just… moving. Like something huge is rolling underneath them.

Eddie’s grip on Richie’s shirt tightens instantly. “Richie.”

“I know.”

Bill turns slowly. The doorway they just stepped toward is a little farther away now, not much, but enough. The ceiling dips down by an inch, plaster cracks softly overhead and Dust rains down like fine ash. The kitchen grows longer, stretches, like it’s trying to pull them back inside it.

“We’re not doing this again,” Richie says firmly.

The lights flicker once, twice. The walls ripple faintly as if something behind them is pressing outward.

Bill squares his shoulders. “Don’t l-look at it,” he says. “Just keep walking.”

They move again, slow and deliberate, Each step feels heavier than it should. The floor subtly slopes downward, toward the center of the kitchen, toward where Eddie fell.

“Nope,” Richie says immediately. “Nope, we’re not circling back.”

Eddie’s breathing starts to quicken again.

The house hears it, the walls tighten slightly, a cabinet door snaps open. Then another. Then another. Slamming in staggered rhythm, like teeth chattering.

“Keep going,” Bill says louder.

The hallway narrows and the doorway shrinks by inches, not enough to block them,  enough to make them doubt.

Eddie stumbles. Richie catches him instantly. “I’ve got you,” Richie says And this time there’s no crack in it.

The floor lurches suddenly, hard, They nearly go down from the force. A deep groan rips through the beams. The house is angry now, it doesn’t like them together, doesn’t like them steady. The wallpaper splits down the middle of the far wall, a long tear that peels open slowly, darkness behind it, moving darkness.

Bill tightens his grip. “NOW,” he shouts. They push forward.

The doorway tries to narrow again, but Richie barrels through it with Eddie half-carried against him and Bill right behind. As soon as they cross the threshold The kitchen snaps back into place behind them with a violent crack, like jaws closing. Silence floods the hallway. The house stops moving.

Richie swallows. “We’re leaving,” he says.

The house creaks softly in response, not stopping them, at least not yet. Just adjusting, like it’s thinking of something worse.

The hallway feels longer than it should, but it’s straight. That’s new. No bending, no obvious shifting, just a long stretch toward the faint outline of the front door. It looks almost normal. Paint chipped, Chain hanging loose, light barely leaking around the edges. Richie doesn’t trust it, but he moves anyway. Eddie leans heavily into him. Bill stays close on the other side, one hand hovering near Eddie’s back in case he slips.

Every step creaks, too loud in the silence. There isn’t any laughter or movement in the walls. The house feels… patient, like it’s letting them try. They’re halfway down the hall when Eddie stiffens. Not from his arm, from something else. 

Richie feels it instantly. “What?” he whispers.

Eddie doesn’t answer, his breath changes. Not panicked, shallow, and focused like he’s listening.

Bill notices too. “Wh-what is it?”

Eddie’s fingers tighten in Richie’s shirt, his eyes unfocus slightly, then Very softly. Right against his ear, Warm breath that isn’t there. “Eddie.” The voice is gentle. Familiar. Richie’s voice, is perfectly pitched. 

Eddie goes rigid And Richie feels it. “Eds?”

The whisper continues. “You know he can’t protect you.” Eddie’s throat works. He doesn’t look at Richie because the voice is coming from the other side From the empty air near his broken shoulder. “You fall,” the whisper murmurs. “He lets go.” 

Richie feels Eddie’s grip falter slightly. “Hey,” Richie says quickly. “Don’t listen—”

“I’m not,” Eddie snaps automatically, but his voice shakes.

The whisper hums softly. “He tried,” it says kindly. “He’s just not strong enough.”

Eddie’s breathing starts to hitch.

Richie stops walking.

Bill turns sharply. “Wh-what’s happening?”

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. “Stop,” he whispers.

The voice doesn’t. “You think he came back for you?” it continues softly. “Or because he felt guilty?”

Richie goes cold. “Eddie,” he says urgently. “Look at me.”

Eddie doesn’t.

The whisper grows quieter, closer. “He screamed your name like it meant something,” it says. “But when it mattered…” A pause. “He slipped.”

Eddie makes a small, wounded sound, not loud, but it wrecks Richie. “That’s not true,” Richie says immediately. “Eds, I didn’t—”

“You did,” the whisper insists gently. “You felt it.”

Bill steps closer. “Eddie,” he says firmly. “It’s not real.”

Eddie finally opens his eyes, they’re glassy and Shaken.

The whisper shifts tone slightly, almost sympathetic. “He’s scared of being alone,” it breathes. “That’s all this is. You’re convenient.”

Richie flinches like he’s been slapped. “Shut up,” he snarls — but he’s not sure if he’s talking to Eddie or the air.

Eddie’s head tilts slightly, listening.

The whisper lowers even further. “You’re easier to lose than he is.”

That does it, Eddie’s eyes snap to Richie and really look at him. Richie looks terrified, not of Pennywise, but of what Eddie might believe. “Don’t,” Richie says quietly. No jokes, no accent, just that.

Eddie studies him Then, slowly, deliberately, He shifts his weight closer to Richie. Not away. “I know,” Eddie says.

The whisper pauses Like it wasn’t expecting that.

Eddie swallows, his voice is still shaking. “But you came back.”

Richie’s breath catches.

The whisper sharpens slightly. “He let go.”

Eddie’s jaw tightens. “He came back,” Eddie repeats.

The hallway lights flicker, once, hard. The whisper grows thinner. “You could fall again.”

Eddie’s fingers twist tighter in Richie’s shirt. “Then he’ll catch me,” Eddie says.

The whisper stops. Just like that. The air feels lighter, not safe, but less crowded.

Richie stares at Eddie like he doesn’t quite understand what just happened.

Bill exhales slowly. “Keep moving,” he says quietly.

They take another step toward the door. The house creaks once, low and irritated. But the front door is right there, closer now. Solid. Real. The chipped white paint looks almost comforting.

Bill lunges the last few steps and grabs the knob and Twists.

It doesn’t move.

He twists harder. The handle rattles violently but the latch doesn’t budge. “Open,” he mutters. “Open, open—” He throws his shoulder into it. The door shudders but doesn’t give.

Behind him, Richie adjusts Eddie’s weight carefully. “Okay,” Richie says, voice too calm. “That’s fine. It’s probably just stuck. Old house. Cheap craftsmanship. Zero stars.”

Eddie’s breathing starts to pick up again. “It’s locked,” he whispers.

“No it’s not,” Richie says immediately. “It’s just being dramatic.”

Bill fumbles for the chain. There isn’t one anymore. The deadbolt is gone, just smooth wood. “No,” Bill breathes. He grips the knob again and yanks with everything he has. The door doesn’t even pretend this time. It’s like pulling on a wall.

“Bill,” Eddie says, voice thinning.

Bill steps back and kicks it. Hard. Pain flashes across his face but he does it again. “Open!” he shouts.

The hallway lights flicker violently.

Richie’s heart starts slamming against his ribs. “Okay,” he mutters. “Okay, we’re not panicking. Nobody panic.”

Eddie’s fingers dig into his shirt. “I’m panicking,” Eddie says faintly.

“That’s fair,” Richie replies automatically, though his voice is starting to shake.

Bill pounds on the door with both fists. “OPEN!” The sound echoes down the hallway. Too loud. Too hollow. And then—Silence. Not just quiet. Silence. The kind that presses in on your ears.

Bill slowly lowers his hands.

Richie feels it before he sees it.

That shift, the awareness, like something has entered the room.

Eddie’s grip tightens again. “Richie,” he whispers.

Richie doesn’t want to turn around, he does anyway. At the very end of the hallway, where it disappears into shadow, Something stands. Tall. Still. Watching. White face barely visible in the dim light, red mouth curved gently upward. Not wide. Not monstrous. Just… pleased. Pennywise tilts his head slightly Like he’s curious, like he’s been there the whole time.

Bill sees him a second later and goes rigid.

Nobody speaks.

The hallway feels longer now, stretching subtly between them and the clown.

Richie shifts Eddie slightly behind him without thinking.

Pennywise notices and His smile deepens. Slowly, he raises one gloved hand and gives a small wave. Friendly. Polite.

The lights flicker once And in that flicker—He’s closer. Not by much.

Eddie’s breath stutters.

“Don’t move,” Bill whispers.

Pennywise takes one slow step forward. The floorboards don’t creak beneath him. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t lunge, He just stands there and watches them panic in front of a door that won’t open. The smile widens slightly Like this is exactly where he wanted them. Trapped between false escape and inevitable approach.

Richie swallows. His hands hurt and His throat burns, but he tightens his hold on Eddie anyway. “Okay,” Richie says quietly. It’s not a joke, not this time.

The clown’s eyes glint in the dim hallway And he takes another slow step forward. Pennywise takes another step, unhurried and measured. The hallway stretches subtly with him Like it’s accommodating his stride.

Bill grabs the doorknob again and twists so hard it squeals. “Come on,” he breathes. “Come on—” It doesn’t budge.

Richie presses Eddie closer against him, shifting so Eddie’s broken arm is protected between them. “Okay,” Richie says under his breath. “Okay, think. Think.”

Pennywise’s shoes make no sound against the floorboards and that’s worse than footsteps. The lights flicker. He’s closer. Not rushing, approaching.

Eddie turns his head slightly, voice shaking. “Yell.”

Richie blinks. “What?”

“The others,” Eddie whispers. “They’re outside.”

Right. They’re not alone, at least not completely. Richie sucks in a breath and shouts, voice tearing: “BEV!” It echoes down the hallway, too thin.

Bill joins in. “BEN! STAN! MIKE!” The names bounce off the walls and come back warped.

Pennywise smiles wider.

Richie yells again. “HELP! WE’RE AT THE DOOR!” His throat feels like glass.

Eddie tries too. “GUYS!” His voice cracks halfway through.

Bill slams his palm flat against the wood. “CAN YOU HEAR US?!” The hallway swallows the sound and the door remains solid, unmoving.

Pennywise stops walking. He’s close enough now that they can see the faint texture of greasepaint on his face. The tiny cracks in the white. The red lines stretched from his mouth to his eyes. He tilts his head, listening, almost curious. “You think they can hear you?” he asks softly. His voice doesn’t echo, it doesn’t need to. It lands heavy and clear.

Richie tightens his grip on Eddie. “They’re right outside,” Richie says.

Pennywise smiles gently. “No,” he replies. The hallway shifts again, Subtle. The door at their backs feels farther away somehow Even though it’s pressed against them. “You’re very deep,” Pennywise continues. “Much deeper than you think.”

Bill’s breathing grows sharp. “Y-you’re lying.”

Pennywise shrugs slightly. “Am I?”

Richie pounds on the door with his fist. “BEV! MIKE! ANYONE!” He presses his ear against it.

Nothing.

Not wind.

Not footsteps.

Not voices.

Just thick, suffocating silence.

Behind them Another step, closer.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. “Richie,” he whispers.

Richie doesn’t turn around this time. He doesn’t want to measure the distance. “Yeah.”

“If he grabs me again—”

“He won’t.”

Pennywise chuckles softly. “I will.”

Bill spins around fully now, placing himself slightly in front of them. Not much, just enough to make a statement.

Pennywise’s eyes flick over the three of them. Evaluating and Calculating. “You call for them,” the clown says. “But they can’t help you.” He spreads his hands slightly, inviting. “You’re mine right now.”

The lights flicker hard and the hallway stretches longer behind him Like it has no end.

Richie’s pulse pounds in his ears. He looks at Bill and Bill looks back. There’s fear there, but something else too. Resolve. Bill reaches for the knob again, slower this time Like he’s daring it. “You’re not real,” Bill says again.

Pennywise’s smile twitches.

“You’re not stronger than all of us,” Bill continues.

Richie’s throat burns, but he forces himself to shout again. “HEY! WE’RE IN HERE!” For one split second—He thinks he hears something. A faint thud Outside Or maybe inside the walls. He can’t tell.

Pennywise’s eyes narrow slightly. Just slightly And that’s enough Because that means he heard it too.

Richie slams his fist against the door again, pain explodes through his already torn knuckles, but He doesn’t care. [BEV!” he screams. “WE’RE RIGHT HERE!”

Bill joins in, pounding hard enough that the wood rattles. “OPEN IT! OPEN IT!”

Eddie, shaking but furious, kicks the bottom panel with his leg. “WE’RE NOT JOKING!”

For one horrible second—

Nothing.

Pennywise’s smile widens. He bends his knees slightly Like a sprinter about to launch. “You’re very loud,” he says softly.

And then From the other side of the door—A faint, muffled shout. “Richie?!”

All three of them freeze.

Richie’s breath stutters. “BEV?!” he shouts back, voice cracking.

A loud bang hits the door from outside. Then another. “We hear you!” Mike’s voice this time. Faint, but real. “Step back!”

Pennywise’s head snaps toward the door. For the first time—He looks irritated. The hallway flickers violently and the walls pulse. “You’re not leaving,” he says flatly.

Bill grabs Richie’s arm. “Back!” They stumble a step away from the door. Eddie nearly loses his balance but Richie catches him instantly.

Another slam from outside, wood splinters, and Light cracks through the frame.

Pennywise’s smile drops completely. He lunges, fast, too fast. One second he’s ten feet away—The next he’s right there. A blur of white and red. His hand shoots out and clamps around Eddie’s ankle, hard.

Eddie screams. He’s yanked backward violently, slipping from Richie’s grip. “NO!” Richie roars.

Eddie’s body hits the floor hard, his broken arm jostles and he cries out in pure pain.

Pennywise grins wildly now, teeth stretching too wide. “Mine—”

The door explodes inward, this time Wood shatters and Sunlight floods the hallway in a blinding burst as Beverly bursts through first, bat in hand, Ben and Mike right behind her.

The sudden light hits Pennywise like acid. He recoils slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

Eddie claws at the floor with his good hand. “Richie!”

Richie doesn’t think. He launches forward and grabs Eddie’s wrist with both hands. His torn palms scream in agony. Blood makes everything slippery, but he locks his grip anyway. “You are NOT—” Richie snarls, voice breaking completely, “—taking him again!”

Pennywise pulls, hard. Eddie’s body jerks between them.

“Richie!” Bill shouts.

Bev swings the bat. It cracks against Pennywise’s shoulder with a sickening thud. He snarls—Not theatrical. Animal. The grip on Eddie falters just slightly. Richie uses it, he plants his feet, every muscle shakes, and his hands scream in protest, but he doesn’t let go. Not this time. Not again. “LET. GO.”

Sunlight pours in through the open doorway. Bright. Real. Pennywise’s painted skin begins to smoke faintly at the edges. He bares his teeth at Richie. “You’ll slip again,” he hisses.

Richie leans back with everything he has left. “Not this time.” Ben grabs Richie around the waist to anchor him. Mike grabs Eddie under the shoulders. They pull together—And Pennywise’s grip finally tears free.

Eddie slides toward them, out of the clown’s reach and into the sunlight.

Pennywise shrieks—A high, furious sound—And recoils back down the hallway as the light intensifies. His form flickers, distorts And then—

He’s gone.

The hallway snaps back into dull, lifeless stillness. Just an old house again.

Breathing hard, Richie scrambles backward out the door, dragging Eddie fully into the yard. They collapse onto the grass in a heap. Sunlight everywhere. Air is real and warm. Eddie is shaking. Richie is shaking harder, but he’s still holding Eddie’s wrist. Locked tight. Like if he checks—It’ll still be there. Bill stumbles out next, followed by the others. The front door of the house stands open behind them, still and silent, as if nothing happened.

Richie looks down at Eddie. Dirt in his hair, tears on his face, but alive. Eddie looks back at him, breathing hard.

“You didn’t slip,” Eddie whispers.

Richie swallows hard. “No,” he says hoarsely. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Bev gently says his name because for the first time since stepping into Neibolt—They’re all outside. Together.

The grass is damp beneath them, cool and real and stubbornly ordinary in a way that almost feels offensive after everything inside. The sky above Neibolt is washed-out afternoon blue, too bright, too calm, like it has no idea what just happened in that house.

Richie is still on his knees and he hasn’t realized he hasn’t moved.

Eddie is half-sprawled against him, propped awkwardly on his good elbow while Mike and Ben carefully adjust his broken arm into something steadier. Beverly is kneeling close, bat still clutched in her hand like she doesn’t trust the sunlight to last.

Richie hasn’t let go of Eddie’s wrist. Not when they hit the grass or when Bill stumbled out after them or even when Ben told him quietly, “He’s out. You can let go.” He doesn’t, his hands are shaking too badly anyway.

Eddie notices first. He shifts slightly and winces, but his eyes stay on Richie’s face instead of his own arm. Richie looks wrecked—glasses crooked, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, dried blood flaking across his knuckles. His throat is raw enough that every breath sounds scraped. “Richie,” Eddie says softly.

Richie blinks like he’s just come back from somewhere far away. “You’re here,” he says, and it isn’t a joke. It isn’t sarcastic. It’s a statement of fact that he needs confirmed.

“I’m here,” Eddie replies.

Richie swallows hard and nods once, but he still doesn’t release his grip. His torn palms are pressed tight around Eddie’s wrist like muscle memory hasn’t updated yet. Eddie can feel how hard he’s holding on—not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure there’s no slipping.

Across the yard, to give them space, Bill is explaining in bursts to Stan and Mike and Ben what happened inside. The words tumble over each other—about the hallway stretching, about the door not opening, about hearing their voices from somewhere too far away. His stutter is worse when he’s trying to move too fast, and Beverly keeps nodding as if smoothing the rhythm for him, grounding him just by standing there. “We c-couldn’t get it open,” Bill says, still breathing hard. “He was— he was right th-there.”

Stan looks pale. “We heard you from the porch,” he says quietly. “It sounded like you were underwater.”

Richie hears it all distantly, like it’s happening underwater himself.

Eddie shifts again, this time deliberately tugging his wrist just a little so Richie has to look at him instead of the house. “You’re bleeding through your shirt,” Eddie says, voice tightening.

Richie glances down as if surprised to see his own hands again. The adrenaline is fading now, and the pain is beginning to bloom properly. His knuckles are swollen, nails cracked, dried blood streaked into the creases of his skin. When he flexes his fingers, they tremble. “It’s fine,” Richie says automatically, but there’s no energy in it.

“It’s not fine,” Eddie counters, and this time there’s something steadier under the panic. “You could’ve broken something. You were pulling against him. Do you have any idea how much force—” He cuts himself off when his voice wobbles.

Richie finally loosens his grip just enough to inspect Eddie’s arm instead. “You fell through a floor,” he says hoarsely. “You hit a table. I think that wins.”

“I don’t care about that,” Eddie snaps, and it surprises both of them. “I mean, I do, obviously, but— that’s not the point.” Richie’s eyes lift again and he swallows, forcing himself to keep looking at him. “You were digging through wood with your bare hands,” he says. “You could’ve— you could’ve torn something permanently.”

Richie tries for a grin, but it’s weak around the edges. “Well, if they have to amputate, at least I won’t have to write anymore book reports.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh, that’s what makes Richie’s expression shift.

“You didn’t let go this time,” Eddie says quietly. It’s not accusation. It’s not praise. It’s something heavier than both.

Richie’s throat tightens again. “I wasn’t going to,” he answers, and there’s no joke to cushion it.

Eddie studies him for a long moment, then reaches up with his good hand and carefully pushes Richie’s glasses straighter on his face. The gesture is small and practical and so unbearably normal that it makes Richie’s eyes sting. “You’re shaking,” Eddie murmurs.

“So are you,” Richie shoots back, but it lacks bite.

Eddie’s fingers curl briefly in the front of Richie’s shirt again, testing the fabric like he did in the kitchen, as if confirming that he’s solid. “You came back,” he says, softer now, like he’s still piecing that together.

Richie huffs out a weak breath. “Yeah. Well. You still owe me five dollars.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches despite himself. “For what?”

“For emotional distress,” Richie replies. “And also the glasses. I think I sat on them at some point.” It’s bad. It’s flimsy. But it’s Richie.

Eddie exhales something that almost qualifies as a laugh, and that seems to unlock something in Richie’s chest. The tightness there eases just a fraction. Behind them, Bill finishes explaining, and there’s a strange, collective quiet as all seven of them stand in the yard, sunlight pooling around their shoes. The house looms behind them, tall and narrow and deceptively still.

For a moment, it looks like just a house. Old paint, broken gutters, and dark windows.

Ben is the first to notice. He squints up toward the second floor. “Guys,” he says faintly. It’s soft, but something in his tone pulls all of them around.

Slowly, like they’re afraid to confirm it, they all follow his gaze. Up to the upstairs window. The curtain inside shifts. Not from wind, from something deliberate. There, framed in the shadowed glass—

A white face.

Too pale against the dark. Red mouth curved in a small, satisfied smile. Watching them, not attacking or lunging. Just… observing. Pennywise raises one gloved hand slowly and rests it against the inside of the windowpane, as if testing the barrier.

Eddie’s fingers tighten reflexively in Richie’s shirt.

Richie doesn’t look away. His jaw sets. The sunlight is warm on his back, the grass is solid under his knees, and the others are all around them.

Pennywise tilts his head slightly, almost curious, and then the curtain falls back into place. The window goes dark again. Just empty glass.

“You saw him too, right?” Ben whispers.

Bill nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“He’s not done,” Eddie says quietly.

Richie exhales slowly, shaking his head. “No.”

Bill then step forward, all the Losers looking at him. “But neither are we.”

They all look back at the house and this time don’t look away, they stare back.