The bikes clatter to the ground one by one.

No one says a word at first.

Bill Denbrough stands at the edge of the cracked sidewalk, fists clenched so tight his knuckles ache. The Neibolt House looms in front of them, sagging inward as if it’s collapsing under the weight of every nightmare Derry has ever swallowed.

“That’s… that’s it,” Bill finally says, voice low. Determined. Terrified. Both at once.

Richie Tozier lets out a weak laugh that dies halfway through. “Oh, cool. Great. Love it. Haunted murder house. Five stars. Yelp would hate this place.”

Eddie Kaspbrak grips his inhaler like a lifeline. “We shouldn’t be here. There could be mold. Or asbestos. Or— or rabies. Houses can have rabies, right?”

“No, Eddie,” Stan Uris mutters, adjusting his glasses with shaking fingers. “But dead animals can.”

Ben Hanscom swallows hard, eyes locked on the dark front porch. “Guys… my dad says places like this are where bad things happen because people let them.”

Beverly Marsh rolls her shoulders back, jaw set. “Then we don’t let it.”

Mike Hanlon steps closer to Bill. “You sure about this?”

Bill looks at them — really looks. Every scared face. Every friend who followed him anyway.

“He took Georgie,” Bill says. “If this is where It lives… then this is where we go.”

The wind gusts.

The front door creaks open an inch.

Richie yelps. “NOPE— door opened itself. That’s haunted-house rule number one. Automatic disqualification. We leave. Right now.”

But Bill is already moving.

The porch groans under their weight as they climb the steps. Each footstep sounds too loud, like the house is listening.

The door swings wider with a slow, deliberate creeaaaak.

Inside, the air is stale and damp. Dust motes float like ghosts in the shafts of gray light filtering through broken boards. The smell hits them all at once — rot, mildew, something coppery underneath.

Eddie gags. “That’s— that’s definitely a biohazard.”

“Relax,” Richie whispers. “If we die, I’m haunting all of you.”

The door slams shut behind them.

Everyone jumps.

Stan’s breathing spikes. “That— that wasn’t funny.”

“No one laughed,” Mike says quietly.

They move forward, flashlights shaking in their hands. Floorboards creak beneath their feet, some bowing dangerously. Walls are scarred with claw marks and old water stains that look disturbingly like faces if you stare too long.

A child’s laughter echoes down the hallway.

Soft. Wet. Wrong.

Beverly spins, raising her flashlight. “Who’s there?”

The laughter cuts off instantly.