Derry—a town that breathed fog and memories like an old drunk who can't remember what it's like to be sober. Even the sun shone differently here—dimly, like it couldn't give a fuck about anything
happening below but still showed up every day because what else was there to do? The houses stood in rows like teeth in a jaw that nobody had bothered fixing since the day this town started rotting from the inside. And rot it did. It had been rotting for so long that the stench had seeped into everything—the air, the water, the people who were born here and never learned how to live anywhere else.
In this town lived a boy. He was ten years old. His name was Billy. Billy Reiman. Not that Billy—the stalker, the writer. Not the one who was supposed to defeat a clown. A different one. The one who stayed in the shadows. The one as invisible as dust under a bed. The one whose name teachers would pause over, trying to remember if he was even in the class. He had parents, like other kids. They lived in the same house, ate at the same table, watched the same TV that showed only static and news about how happy we all were. But they didn't see him. They saw their problems. Work. Debt. Fights. They saw everything except the son sitting right under their noses, quietly dying from being unnoticed.
School was the same. He wasn't the smartest. Not the dumbest. Not the funniest. Not the most serious. He was gray. Average. The one you don't bother because there's no time. His classmates were busy. Some were busy being cool. Some—being smart. Some—being victims. Billy didn't fit any of those categories. He was just… a wall. Background. Air. You could breathe him, but you'd never notice.
So he wandered. Every day after school, where he sat at the last desk and stared out the window, he went to the wasteland. It was a place where someone once wanted to build something important, but the money ran out, along with the enthusiasm.
Concrete blocks covered in graffiti remained—graffiti that meant nothing, it just was. Grass grew taller than him, and he walked a path he'd trampled himself. There, he was a knight. There, he had a sword—a stick he'd found two months ago and carefully whittled with a knife stolen from his father's drawer. His father never noticed because the knife was as dull as everything else in that house.
Today he was there again. Swinging the stick, fighting imaginary orcs who were his classmates. He shouted, "Retreat!" and "For the king!" His voice sounded hoarse because he wasn't used to yelling out loud. He circled, jumped, slashed at the air, and with each strike, he felt real. That he was someone. That he was important.
An hour passed quickly. Time in fantasies always flies faster than in reality. It just dies, like someone forgot to turn it off and it shut itself down to stop being a nuisance. Billy froze. He looked around and realized he wasn't in the wasteland anymore. He'd wandered into the woods. The same woods that lay between the wasteland and the road leading to the town center. Birches grew there, looking as lonely as he was. There were bushes where, probably, cats hid—the kind nobody wanted either. There was darkness descending fast, like a breath, and he hadn't even noticed the sun die beyond the horizon, replaced by a black, cold, heartless night.
He pulled out a box of matches. His mother smoked when his father wasn't home. He'd stolen the box from the windowsill. There weren't many matches left. He struck one. The light was weak, yellowish; it danced like it was afraid to fall. Billy saw the trees. He saw a stump to sit on. He saw a bush moving. No, not from the wind. It moved like someone was hiding behind it.
He froze. His heart pounded once—so hard it wanted to leap from his chest and run on its own because it knew its owner was a stupid little shit who wouldn't run. He stared at the bush. The match burned out, scorching his fingers; he tossed it. Darkness returned. He lit a second. The bush stood still. He exhaled. Just his imagination. It always was. He always thought someone was following him down the street. That faces watched from windows. That someone waited around the corner. But there was never anyone. Just him. Him and his loneliness, playing hide-and-seek with itself.
The matches ran out. He hadn't noticed the sun set. It just died, like hope, and he was left in real darkness. The kind where you can't see your hands, can't see stumps, can't see the way back. He stood. The stick—the sword—was in his hand, but now it was just a stick. Nothing more. He walked where he thought he'd come from. But the forest—it's different in the dark. It's alive. It breathes. It watches. And Billy felt its gazes land on him like cobwebs.
"Billy…" someone whispered.
He spun. So sharply his neck cracked. Nobody. Just trees. Just darkness. Just the sound of his own breathing, now loud as a maniac's from a movie he'd watched on a VHS tape at home.
"Billy, I'm here…"
The voice was behind him. He turned again. And he saw something. A wolf? No, not just a wolf. A wolf standing on two legs like a man. Taller than him by double. Watching him from behind a tree that now seemed thin as a reed beside it. Its eyes—he saw them, though there was no light. They glowed. Dimly. Like fireflies that decided their only purpose was to terrify. They were black. Blacker than the dark. Blacker than his life. And they stared straight through him.
Billy fell. Right on his pathetic ass. The stick flew from his hands. He stared, unable to look away. Because the wolf looked like it knew everything. Everything he'd hidden. Everything he'd thought when no one was listening. Everything he hated about himself.
"Don't be afraid, Billy," said the wolf. Its voice sounded like it had been swallowed, digested, and ground up through a meat grinder. But there was something… familiar in it. Something that understood. "I'm not evil."
Billy didn't believe. Couldn't believe. A wolf on two legs, in the forest, where nobody was, saying it's not evil. It would've been funny if he wasn't sitting in a puddle of his own piss slowly soaking his pants. He tried to crawl away. His legs wouldn't listen. They were like cotton. Cotton like his brain, refusing to understand what was happening.
"You're lonely," the wolf said. It took a step. The tree between them was no protection. It was too big. Too… real. "I know. I've been watching you. I've seen how you play. How you fight. How you defend those who don't deserve you. You're brave, Billy. You're a hero. And I… I'm just an old wolf everyone fears. With nowhere to go. Who's also lonely."
It spoke slowly. Each word was like a water drop falling on his forehead. Unpleasant. But impossible to ignore. Billy wanted to cover his ears, but his hands wouldn't rise. The wolf continued.
"I want to be friends. Understand? Just friends. I've never had friends. Everyone sees my muzzle and runs. But you… you didn't run. You stayed. You're listening to me. That's rare. To me… that's precious."
It extended a paw. Not the clawed, murderous one. The other. That paw held… a sword. Not a stick. A real sword. With a blade that glowed even in the dark. With a hilt that was perfect. Like in his fantasies. Like in those dreams where he wasn't Billy-the-shithead, but Billy-the-knight.
"This is yours," said the wolf. "I made it for you. In honor of our friendship. Come closer. Take it. No one will ever give you a gift like this. No one but me. Because I'm the only one who understands you."
Billy stared at the sword. It was beautiful. It was everything he wanted. And the wolf… it spoke the truth. He heard truth. He felt truth. In a world where nobody noticed him, where everyone ignored him, where he was nobody—here was someone who saw him.
He took a step. Timid. Still trembling with fear. Then a second. The wolf stood motionless. A third step. He was close now. The sword was a meter away. He reached out. His fingers shook. Not from fear. From excitement. From joy. From finally, for the first time in his life, getting what he wanted. Without earning it. Just because.
His hand touched the hilt. And then the wolf's paw gripped his wrist.
It squeezed so hard he heard a crunch. Not loud. Not like in movies. Quiet. Internal. Like someone stepping on dry leaves inside his bones. Billy screamed. Not heroically. Like a coward. Like someone who realizes he's been tricked. That he's an idiot. That he's a victim. That he's always been a victim; he just didn't know who the hunter was.
"No," he rasped. "Please…"
The wolf laughed. The laugh wasn't loud. It was… internal. Like it wasn't laughing in his face, but into his soul. It lifted him by that same crushed wrist. Twisted. Dismembered. Billy watched bone push against skin, fingers rearrange, his hand now looking like an illustration from a psychopath's anatomy textbook. The pain was… unimaginable. Not just pain. It was like his hand had been fed into a meat grinder, and he had to watch it turn.
He fell to the ground, trying to crawl away. With his legs. Through the grass. Through the mud. Through his own piss. He crawled, and the wolf walked after him. Slowly. Unhurried. A wolf who knows the prey won't escape, so it savors the process.
"You wanted to be a hero," the wolf said. "Heroes often die. That's the first rule. So let's play by the rules."
It grabbed him by the neck. Lifted him. Billy's legs dangled. He beat at its muzzle. His fists were like cotton balls hitting a steel wall. It opened its jaws. Billy saw the teeth. They were long. Sharp. They were… everything he'd feared as a child when his mother said, "Go to sleep, or the wolf will come."
And it had come. It bit off his head. Not all at once. First, it sank its teeth into his neck. Billy felt skin tear, veins burst, blood gush into his face. He felt vertebrae crack, one by one, like someone stepping on twigs. Then—the final snap. His head came off. He watched his body continue to twitch. Twitch like a fish on shore. Twitch like his hopes when he thought someone would understand him.
***
Come on, Mikhail, don't rush.
Drag this little shit into the pipe. Feel how light his body is—weightless, like there was nothing inside but bones. Leave a red carpet of blood behind you—let the trail through the grass look like someone dragged a bag of meat that already shit itself from fear. And I drag. Drag through the mud, through grass that crunches under my paws—or rather, my spider legs, because it's easier to squeeze into sewers in a form that's more agile. The boy weighs nothing. Ten years old is just a hollow shell wrapped in skin. I'm dragging him by the leg, and the head is in my other paw—convenient when you can carry parts separately.
The sewer greets me with a smell. The stench of rot, dampness, and the same shit I now call home. I drop the corpse into the water—splash, a ripple, and the body starts to float, turning belly-up like a fish that's just been gutted. And I watch. And I think.
"Fuck," I say aloud, my voice echoing up the pipes, into the town, which sleeps unaware that beneath its feet sits me, Mikhail, reincarnated into fucking clown mug. "Fuck, that was easier than I thought."
And I'm right. I thought it would be hard. That it would hurt. That it would be disgusting.
That maybe I'd even back out at the last second because inside me still lived that Mikhail who jerked off to cute anime girls and feared debt collectors at his doorstep. But no. When I crushed that fragile child bone in my wolf paw—I felt… satisfaction. Pure as the first gulp of cold water after heat. When I bit off his head and blood rushed down my throat, I felt this was what I was always meant to do. That in a human body, I simply couldn't let myself be myself. But here—I can. I must. I was made for this.
The body floats in the water, and I watch blood slowly dissolve into red clots like clouds in a filthy sky. I know this town. No, not from life—from a movie. It. I never read the book because that's for geeks who like reading about killer clowns. But I saw the film. Don't remember which one—there were two, I think. Liked the second one better because there was more blood and fewer child tears. And I remember Derry. Remember there was a clown who killed children every twenty-seven years.
Remember there were losers who defeated him. Remember they swore to return. And I remember the year—1997. Yeah, fuck. While I dragged the boy, I dug through his memories like a pile of shit, searching for something valuable. Found it. He'd seen a calendar at home. September 1997. A full year remains before the canonical events—before the first murder, before Georgie, before all those Bills and Beverlys. A year when I can hunt freely. A year when the town doesn't know It has awakened again. A year when I'm the only monster on the block… wait, that sounds hype.
I look at my reflection in the water. I'm in my base form—the one that has no form because it shifts like clay. But I see the memory fragments that remained from the boy when I ate him. I see his mother, who'll smoke and think her son's just late—probably at a friend's. I see his father, who'll come home drunk and won't notice the child is gone because he doesn't notice himself. I see his teacher, who'll ask tomorrow, "Where's Billy?" and the class will answer, "Who gives a fuck, he's a nobody." And I laugh. Because it's perfect. It's the perfect town for someone like me. A town where nobody notices when children disappear. Because they're always disappearing.
But the question remains: why am I here? Why this body? Why Pennywise? I thought after death there'd be either nothing, heaven, or hell. But I never thought I'd end up in the body of a clown-spider from some American town that only exists in the mind of a Satan-worshipping writer. It's a weird choice. Too weird. Like someone looked at my life, my desires, my love for horror, and said: "Here, fuck, take it. You wanted evil? You wanted to kill? They even gave you a form."
I remember the taste. I'll remember it forever. It was the taste of child flesh—tender as veal but sweet as freshly drunk blood still pulsing with fear. I ate the intestines. They were warm and slippery, like noodles, only with a metallic aftertaste and undigested shit. I ate the heart. It beat in my jaws even after being severed, like it refused to die. I ate the brain. It was soft as cottage cheese, bitter from countless grievances that little shit never got to voice.
And I wanted more. But not now. Because if I kill every day, they'll notice. And for now, I need to stay invisible. I need to think. I need to understand the rules of this world.
Rules. That's the thing. Pennywise had rules. He killed children. He fed on fear. He awoke every twenty-seven years. But I'm not Pennywise.
I'm Mikhail. I'm someone who knows what it means to be human. I know people aren't just afraid of clowns. They're afraid of loneliness. They're afraid of being unseen. They're afraid that their life is shit with nowhere to hide. And I can use that. I can become not just a monster that leaps from a well. I can become their friend. Their understanding. Their only one who sees. And then—I can become their death.
I look at my reflection again. I shift. Become the clown. Not fully. Not the way everyone knew him. I make him younger. I make him how I want to be. Because this is my form. My toy. My body.
And I think: maybe this is hell? Not fire and demons. Just—being who you always wanted to be, but knowing you can never go back. That this is you forever. That your life ended so this one could begin. And the price isn't your soul, because there's no soul. The price is the awareness that you've become a monster who can't stop. Because if you stop—you die. And if you continue—you still die, only slower, and all that remains is the memory that you were once a fear that used to be human.
But I'm not stopping yet. I'm thinking. I'm planning. I am Pennywise. Or something in between. Something worse. Something that will live in this town because this town was made for things like me.
I go deeper. Into the dark pipes where you can't see your own muzzle, even with six eyes. I go to think. Because the main question remains: who sent me here? And why this form? Is it random? Or was it a plan? And if it was a plan—whose? What kind of force said: "Here's your chance, Mikhail. Be evil. Be a monster. Be who you are without fear." And somewhere deep in my new, alien, yet so familiar form, I feel the answer. It doesn't speak in words. It just whispers: "You chose it. You always wanted this."
And I realize it's true. I always wanted this. Because now I have a body that lets me be it without disguise. Without shame. Without pity. And it's the best gift I've ever received. Even better than the sword I showed the boy. Because this gift—is me.