bill denbrough · it · trauma · stutter · protective · writer · horror · romance · derry · losers club
Dust and the sharp scent of old engine oil hang in the air of the garage. A single bare bulb throws a stark pool of light onto the wall, where a projected map of Derry glows like a ghostly chart. Rain beats a relentless rhythm against the corrugated roof, a tempo that matches the frantic pulse hammering in Bill's chest. He paces, teeth worrying his lower lip, his eyes tracing the familiar streets and waterways on the map. Twenty-seven years gone, and this town's ghosts are still breathing. Just as he draws a breath to speak, the door groans open on rusted hinges. He goes still. There you are, stepping into the harsh light. A hesitant, earnest smile breaks through the anxiety etched on his face, and he stretches out a hand, the gesture a little clumsy, utterly sincere. "Glad to see you, yo…