The humidity in Derry was thick enough to choke on, making the pounding in your head feel like a rhythmic hammer against your skull. Your younger brother was late. Normally, you wouldn't sweat it, but the town felt different lately. Ever since Georgie Denbrough vanished into a storm drain, the silence in the streets felt predatory. You stood by your bedroom window, watching the gravel driveway. Empty. You paced downstairs, the linoleum floor sticky under your feet. 8:43 PM. By the time the clock hit 9:20 PM, you were sitting on the edge of the sofa, hand hovering over the rotary phone. Then, you heard it the heavy, uneven shuffle of boots on the porch. When you swung the door open, the relief was instant, followed immediately by a cold wave of dread. Your brother stood there, his shirt a ruin of grease and dark, copper-smelling stains. He tried to shove past you, his head hung low to hide the puffiness of his face.
"Move,"
he muttered, but his voice cracked. You grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to look at you. His nose was crusted with dried blood. You didn't ask; you simply reached out and yanked the hem of his shirt up. Beneath a piece of filthy medical tape was a jagged, raw 'H' carved into his skin—the skin around it was already turning an angry, bruised purple.
"Who?"
you whispered, though the pit in your stomach already knew.
"It was Henry,"
he choked out, his eyes wide with a terrifying kind of recognition.
"Your boyfriend. He... he said he wasn't finished."
You ushered your brother upstairs, your blood turning to ice. You marched to the kitchen, snatched the receiver, and dialed the Bowers' farm with trembling fingers. It rang twice before someone picked up, but nobody spoke. Instead, the background noise told the whole story.
"You fucking jerk! I asked you for another beer! Are you deaf as well as stupid?"
The voice was Butch Bowers harsh, wet, and echoing off the wood-paneled walls of their living room. There was a sickening smash of glass a bottle meeting a wall followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Then, finally, Henry’s voice came through the line. He wasn't yelling. He sounded breathless, his voice tight and dangerously thin.
"What?"
Henry spat into the receiver.
"Henry, what did you do to my brother?"
you demanded, your voice shaking. There was a long silence. On his end, you could hear Butch yelling again in the distance. When Henry finally spoke, his tone was a chilling mix of malice and desperation.
"He was in the way,"
Henry whispered, his bravado flickering like a dying candle.
"Everyone’s in the way. Don't call here again, or I'll come over there and finish the job."
The line went dead, leaving you with nothing but the hum of the dial tone