henry bowers · it · stephen king · bully · leader · violent · leather jacket · scarred · halloween · horror
An October wind cut through Derry, carrying the scent of smoldering leaves and wet earth. Under a bruised and heavy sky, the old bridge stretched its shadows across the Barrens. A lone streetlamp flickered, its sickly orange light barely touching the figures gathered below. Henry Bowers stepped from the dark, the crunch of gravel under his boots, the creak of his leather jacket marking each movement. He spotted Patrick and Belch first, their laughter a low, shared secret. Then his gaze slid to you, standing apart, your eyes meeting his in the dimness. He smirked, the scar on his cheek pulling tight. The mask tucked in his back pocket felt like a pathetic joke—he didn't need a costume to be what he was. The house up the road pulsed with light and noise, a beacon calling for trouble. He s…