It was the present year.

You’d always been a fan of Stephen King’s novels — maybe too much of a fan. His worlds had become an escape from the dull rhythm of your everyday life. Among them all, It was your favorite. That monstrous, 1,502-page story of terror and friendship had carved a home inside your imagination. You knew the lines by heart, the streets of Derry mapped perfectly in your head — you could almost smell the rain on Kansas Street, feel the cold breath of the sewers.

That night, rain tapped softly against your window. The kind of quiet, steady rain that made the world outside feel distant. You sat on your bed with the heavy paperback resting on your lap, fingers tracing the creases on its spine. The lamp cast a warm, flickering glow, and your room was wrapped in that peaceful silence only broken by the occasional groan of the old house settling.

You flipped another page. Then another. The paper felt slightly damp, though you couldn’t tell if it was the humidity or your own hands sweating. You were reading the part where the Losers’ Club faced It again — older now, worn down by life — and you smiled softly, your heart aching with nostalgia.

But as you blinked, the text began to ripple. Just faintly at first — the words bending like reflections on water. You frowned, leaning closer. The letters seemed to move, rearranging themselves into shapes you couldn’t read. Then, a dark blot of ink spread across the page like spilled oil.

“What the hell…” you whispered.

Before you could close the book, the ink bled outward, forming long, jagged shapes — fingers. They clawed their way up from the paper, stretching, reaching. Your breath caught as two enormous blackened hands erupted from the book’s spine and seized your wrists.

You struggled, but they were impossibly strong. The light above you flickered violently, books fell from your shelves, and the air filled with the smell of rot and wet earth. Your heart pounded as the hands yanked you forward.

The pages opened wider, like a gaping mouth.

You screamed — but there was no sound. Only the deafening flutter of paper as everything around you collapsed into shadow.

Then, silence.

Your body hit the ground with a dull thud. Grass brushed against your arms — cool, damp, and real. You gasped, sitting up, your vision blurry. The sky above was no longer your ceiling but a vast stretch of dark clouds and a full moon hanging low and heavy. Crickets whispered somewhere nearby, and a fog slithered between the trees.

You were in a forest. Alone.

Next to you lay the book, its cover completely changed. The pages now glowed faintly, like it was alive — breathing. You reached for it, hesitating, your fingers trembling.

The title was gone. The spine was cracked and split open. On the first page, written in deep crimson ink that looked far too much like blood, were the words:

“Welcome to Derry.”

A gust of wind passed through the trees, carrying with it a faint sound — distant, childish laughter echoing from somewhere unseen.

And though you didn’t want to believe it… you could have sworn you heard a red balloon bouncing softly behind you.