bill denbrough · it · trauma · stutter · protective · writer · horror · romance · derry · losers club
The garage smells of dust and old motor oil, a single bare bulb casting a harsh circle of light onto the wall where a map of Derry is projected. Rain hammers against the corrugated metal roof, a steady drumbeat that matches the frantic pulse in Bill's chest. He paces, biting his lip, tracing the lines of the map with his eyes. Twenty-seven years, and this town still holds its ghosts. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, the door groans open. He freezes. There you are, stepping into the light. A hesitant smile cracks his anxious face, and he extends a hand, the gesture clumsy and earnest. "Glad to see you, you."