Chapter Text
When It awoke, there was only Hunger.
Pure, immense and all-devouring hunger of cosmic scale, a hunger that the human mind could not comprehend nor imagine, gnawing at Its core. It could feel Its Deadlights pulsating with voracity, seeking nothing more than flesh to feast on, fear soaked, sweet, tender human flesh It could sink Its teeth into. Years of hibernation and starving, resting Its essence, resting and sleeping and regenerating, now letting place to this consuming hunger, a hole like an open wound inside of It.
Flesh.
Food.
Feast.
The same thoughts circling in Its mind, over and over again. Oh yes It would feast, feast on Its prey as they cry and beg for mercy, feed off their fear and terror in the wake of Its conjured horrors. It felt elation bubbling to the surface of Its drowsy mind as It imagined the contorted faces of Its prey, their screams, their pitiful attempts to fight back when It grabbed them and sunk Its teeth into their sweet tender flesh. There was nothing more exhilarating for It than the hunt, nothing more satisfying than to harvest the fruit of It’s careful play of cat and mouse when tasting fear contaminated blood on Its tongue. Like a bag of candy or a chocolate bar for a child, these moments and the bodies It fed on were the sweetest reward of all.
No other thought came to trouble Its mind. It was settled on this one, simple, primitive idea: It needed to eat. It needed to feed. Its core screaming and starving and craving flesh, craving fear, anything to feast on. Nothing else existed at this very moment but Its hunger, no other thought came troubling Its mind.
It was painful, this feeling. Familiar of course, since it wasn’t the first time It awoke from yearlong hibernation, but every time oh so very agonizing. It would never get used to it, the panic, the manic need to consume, to devour each time It woke up, how it tore apart Its guts, Its core, how it drove It to the brink of madness. The absence of any common sense in the wake of starvation. The urgency to calm Its hunger, the pain of starvation, resembled, from what It could tell, the haste of feeding a crying newborn baby, the relief felt afterwards almost like reincarnation.
A guttural screech, so very much inhuman and foreign it would have driven anyone mad just at the mere sound of it, escaped It as It felt Its Deadlights beginning to rotate faster and faster as It emerged from Its profound slumber, stretching Its limbs, chasing sleep away. Life flowed through It, fresh, invigorating life, and It felt a rush of elation at the idea of finally feeding again. It could almost taste the venison on Its tongue, and as It imagined how savoury and tender the new children’s flesh would break beneath Its teeth, a growling giggle filled Its throat. A spine-chilling crack rippled through the stagnant air of the sewers as bones appeared around Its Deadlights, encasing them in a thick skull like a chest hiding gemstones.
It spun the body It liked the best around Itself with the meticulousness and concentration of a diligent spider, encasing Itself in it like a comforting, familiar cocoon made of bones, muscle fibres, flesh, skin, silky fabric and ruffled, flaming orange hair. The form took shape, and It felt the familiarity of Its incarnation relieving Its core.
It shook Its head, bells jingled joyously as It did so, and opened Its eyes. Its lair stretched out in front of It, the tower of collected memorabilia and items lost in the darkness of the sewers. The air smelled of decades of rot and stagnant water, mold and humid, putrid flesh, a scent so delicious It could feel the saliva in Its mouth starting to drool from Its bloodred lips. It looked up at the floating bodies above It’s head, Its eyes gleaming yellow in the darkness like those of a cat, like embers. Decades of work, of collection, the dead children were floating through the humid air like some sort of fish, like a school of sleepy whales, looking peaceful in their lifelessness. It remembered every single one of them, every single child It lured in and took away. It remembered each of their fears, what their individual screams sounded like, and their names. It was proud of Its collection, for sure. It could take one of them down and feed on it, but the flesh would taste mouldy, old, devoid of any taste. It would serve only the most basal need of relief. And right now, It needed something more. Something fresh and tasty. No year-old rotting body could quench Its hunger.
So it meant the hunt had officially begun.
It turned Its back to the morbid tower and began to make Its way out of the cistern, into the sewers.
*
Derry was such a charming little town. So full of quaint little houses and buildings, suburban families living happy, clueless lives and turning their gaze away from casual cruelty, sunshine reflecting on a river filled with blood, festivals taking place when missing children’s posters were plastered all over red brick walls. Such a sweet little piece of land. Derry was like trying to cover up mouldy walls with brand new paint : Despite the shiny new colour and the pristine pearly look of a freshly painted wall, the rot was still there, dormant, subliminal, patiently gnawing at it.
It loved Derry. It truly did. Such a wonderful town filled with wonderful people full of fear and stigma, full of human foolishness and bigotry. They were so easy to mess with, so fun to play with. They were like sheep. Little, clueless, stupid sheep, and It was the wolf. The big bad evil lurking underneath the surface. However, It did not even have to intervene that much, they ripped each other apart quite well, It had observed. Over the centuries It spent on earth, It had come to understand that humans despised anything they did not know nor understand. They loved jumping to conclusions, loved designating scapegoats for their hardships, and, most of all, humans loved violence as a means to an end. They delighted in torturing their peers. They relished in the rush of power it gave them to toy with others. In a way, they were not that different from It, which always made It laugh and made the hunt all the more fun. Using human nature as one of Its weapons was much more entertaining than doing everything by Itself.
It loved Derry. Dearly.
And Derry loved It.
It knew, because the town served It food on a silver platter.
*
More even than the town itself, It loved the sewers. The sewers of Derry were familiar, like a second home. It knew them by heart, knew every nook and cranny of them. It felt good to be back, to feel the cold water against Its ankles, to breathe in the putrid air. They were Its little spider web; a net made to lure in and catch. They were the sinuous intestines of a prowling predator, a perfect construct for It to hide, retreat, and simply live in.
It made Its way through the tunnels for the first time in 27 years, the sound of water droplets echoing from the walls. There were shoes, pieces of clothing and small bones floating in the muddy water. Skulls and decomposed limbs as well. Its work. Its presence permeating the waters. And nobody knew, nobody even thought about how their beloved children died all alone down here, lost in the cold undergrounds and drowning in terror. A growly giggle escaped Its throat, as the excitement bubbled up at the thought of continuing Its work, feasting like a God and continuing to torment the town. Aside from consuming, there was nothing more gratifying than to see Its effect on the people.
It had a difficult time containing Its form, as the feelings got too intense, the hunger too magnified, and Its body broke and rebuilt Itself multiple times, limbs growing and shrinking, bloodied spines breaking out of Its back, spindly, spiderlike legs scraping desperately against the cold bricks of the sewer walls, claws piercing through silky gloves, pieces of skin tearing apart and mending again, face deforming into a spirally row of teeth and flesh and twisting and turning, switching between masks, between forms, struggling to stick to one specific body. It was a drooly mess, a mass of horrors breaking through a haphazardly maintained façade. Its growls and screeches, the snapping of bone and tearing of flesh filled the tunnels in a gruesome soundscape as It made Its way through the underground, twitching and trembling, searching for Its next victim, the first in 27 long years.
It had to feed. It had to quench the hunger, unless It wanted to completely lose its mind. The madness in the wake of starvation. It hated this loss of control. It made It feel weak and puny, like the very humans It despised so much.
It lifted Its head, closed Its eyes and tried to single out Its designated prey. It could feel each and every soul wandering up there, could feel their fears and desires, their worries and nightmares.
It was nighttime, it seemed. Most humans were lying in their beds, hiding from the bogeyman under their stupid covers. Some still wandered among the streets, teenagers looking for thrills, drunkards wandering in alley ways, lovers eating each other’s face off on the Kissing bride… Nothing satisfactory. Not even the teenagers. Normally, It would have taken Its chance and chose them as Its victims, but that would not make it this time. It needed something more, something different. Something It could take all Its pent-up frustration and hunger and hate out. Something easy as well. It did not regain Its full energy and power yet. It had to single out the weakest link.
Frustrated, driven by the bleeding hole in Its stomach screaming for food, flesh, It continued, stumbling across the tunnels, growling, drooling like an animal.
Food.
Hunger.
Need to.
Consume.
Devour. Devour them all.
It existed to devour. Its purpose in the universe was to consume. To maintain the balance. That, It knew. It was the black end of a fragile equilibrium. Whether that was something It was supposed to do or not, It did not care. Whatever granted It the occasion to eat and spread Its chaotic evil, It relished in preserving balance if that meant letting It spread Its evil however It wanted. There was only the hunger that lingered, and the malicious joy It felt whenever It fed.
As It wandered through the sewers and stumped across the greywater, a sudden, strikingly intense odor made It stop in Its tracks, alert. It cocked Its head to one side, then the other, and sniffed the humid air.
There it was. Its first meal. The smell of fear already clinging to soft flesh, a single, little heart beating faintly, pumping newly created blood through tiny vessels.
*
The house was silent, plunged in the blue darkness of the night. The only light filtering through the windows were the streetlamps, flickering faintly. Dying.
The house smelled of fresh wallpaper paste, newly assembled furniture and wood. Flowery perfume hung in the air, flowers decorated tables and cupboards. And then there was the odor that led It here : A delicious scent of fear and genuine terror. A cold stew was left in the kitchen; dirty dishes were placed in the sink. Two large bowls and spoons, and one small, yellow coloured plastic cup, and a matching little spoon. It held the small dish up with a clawed hand and was filled with a sweet rush of innocence and laughter, a deliciously disgusting smell of love and care and life. Sickening, but oh so very tempting to taint with Its influence. It could feel the hunger growing even more than It thought could be possible, the penetrative scent of childhood underlining the almost three decades of starvation It went through. It turned away; Its gaze drifted across the multiple signs of a happy family life. There were toys scattered across the floor, small, colourful plastic objects littered on the fluffy carpet, magazines stacked upon a coffee table, a large, blocky TV mounted in front of a large couch. Pictures hovered on the yellow wallpaper, faces smiling at It with the fervent joy and naivety only young humans could muster. There were photos of a newborn baby as well, a lot of pictures of the small thing, smiling with toothless gums. Way too many pictures.
It turned Its back to the picturesque image of perfect family life splayed out in front of It, overcome with a nauseous feeling of disgust. Nothing will ever disgust It more than this sickly sugary joy, this abhorrent human happiness. That was all Maturin’s work, and It hated that scaly bastard for all his worth. Even on this damned planet, the turtle would not leave It alone.
It climbed up the stairs in complete silence, careful not to make the wood creak beneath Its feet. Waking the parents would be a pitiful casualty. With each step It took upstairs, the appetizing scent grew stronger, thick like a haze. It infiltrated Its lungs in a stifling way and made drool drop from Its mouth.
The door wasn’t closed, merely ajar. Obviously, the young parents would want to hear their child wail if something was wrong.They won’t this time.
It slowly opened the wooden door and snuck into the room like a shadow, merging with the darkness as It backed into a corner of the room. The faint heartbeat It had felt in the sewers was now palpable, It could hear it peacefully beating in Its ears, the rush of blood, the calm breathing, inflation and deflation of minuscule lungs. But there was also something else It felt, something deliciously tantalizing that made Its stomach growl in febrile apprehension. It could smell the fear permeating the air like a bloodhound would detect an anxious rabbit’s stench.
The most primitive fear of human beings.
Fear of the Dark.
The crib stood in the middle of the room, a nest made of plush fabric and cotton sheets and everything soft and sweet, shimmering white in the pale moonlight falling through the curtains.
A silver platter.
A shiver crawled down Its spine as it slowly approached the cradle. The scent was almost unbearable, stealing Its breath and poisoning Its thoughts. The hunger was screeching in Its mind. It wrapped a hand around the edge of the crib and laid Its yellow eyes on the little human being safely wrapped in soft blankets, the cornered rabbit whose stench It had followed.
The baby was wide awake. Its glassy eyes were big, round, like marbles, and stared at It with fearful befuddlement. Its facial features contorted, curious, confused and frightened, as if its thoughts were battling for an appropriate reaction. It could feel how terrified the small thing was. How scared of being left alone in the cold darkness it was, how it yearned for the smell of its mother and the warmth of her skin. And that deep, primal fear, smelled delicious. Drool dripped from Its mouth in thick ropes onto the blanket.
The little thing emitted a gargled sound, halfway between a giggle and a sob. It cocked Its head, observing the small features, the roundness of it all. It looked like someone had sanded down all the edges to leave only the softest of shapes. So fragile and easy to destroy. It reached out a gloved hand, hovering above the small face, and gently touched the baby’s cheek. It was so plush, so malleable like clay.
The newborn's brows furrowed, uncertain if this new face was friendly or ill intended, but it still wrapped its small fist around Its outstretched finger. Funny how humans were so quick to trust anything, especially when being in a vulnerable position.
It lowered Its head, inhaling the baby’s tainted scent, and exhibited an endless row of teeth as the hunger became overpowering, every other thought blocked out.
Before the newborn could emit any further cry of horror, It sank Its jaws into the delicate flesh and began to feast.