Eddie stood like a boy in a dream, hearing the muffled screams and sounds of struggle as his friends were being pulled in. He sensed the tentacles around him but none had as yet actually landed on him.

Run home! his mind commanded him quite loudly. Run home to your mamma, Eddie! You can find the way!

Bill screamed in the dark-a high, despairing sound that was followed by hideous squishings and slobberings.

Eddie's paralysis broke wide open-It was trying to take Big Bill!

"No!" Eddie bellowed-it was a full-blown roar. One might never have guessed such a Norse-warrior sound could issue from such a thin chest, Eddie Kaspbrak's chest, Eddie Kaspbrak's lungs, which were of course afflicted with the most terrible case of asthma in Derry. He bolted forward, jumping over questing tentacles without seeing them, his broken arm thumping his own chest as it swung back and forth in its soggy cast. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out his aspirator.

(acid that's what it tastes like acid acid battery acid)

He collided with Bill Denbrough's back and slammed him aside. There was a watery ripping sound, followed by a low eager mewling that Eddie did not so much hear with his ears as feel with his mind. He raised the aspirator

(acid it's acid if I want it to be so eat it eat it eat)

"BATTERY ACID, FUCKNUTS!" Eddie screamed, and triggered off a blast. At the same time he kicked at the Eye. His foot went deep into the jelly of Its cornea. There was a gush of hot fluid over his leg. He pulled his foot back, only dimly aware that he had lost his shoe.

"FUCK OFF! CRAM IT, SAM! GO AWAY, JOSE! GET LOST! FUCK OFF!"

He felt tentacles touch him, but tentatively. He triggered the aspirator again, coating the Eye, and felt/heard that mewling again... now a hurt, surprised sound.

"Fight It!" Eddie raved at the others. "It's just a fucking Eye! Fight It! You hear me? Fight It, Bill! Kick the shit out of the sucker! Jesus Christ you fucking pussies I'm doing the Mashed Potatoes all over It AND I GOT A BROKEN ARM!"

Bill felt his strength return. He ripped his dripping arm out of the Eye... and then slammed it, fist-first, back in. A moment later Ben was beside him. He ran into the Eye, grunted with surprise and disgust, and then began to rain punches onto its jellied quivering surface. "Let her go!" he yelled. "You hear me? Let her go! Get outta here! Get outta here!"

"Just an Eye! Just a fucking Eye!" Eddie was screaming deliriously. He triggered his aspirator again and felt It draw back. The tentacles which had settled on him now dropped away. "Richie! Richie! Get it! It's just an Eye!"

Richie stumbled forward, unable to believe he was doing this, actually approaching the worst, most terrible monster in the world. But he was.

He only threw a single weak punch, and the feel of his fist sinking into the Eye-it was thick and wet and somehow gristly-made him throw his guts up in one big tasteless convulsion. A sound came out of him-glurt!-and the thought that he'd actually puked on the Eye caused him to do it again. It was only a single punch, but since he had created this particular monster, perhaps that was all that was necessary. Suddenly the tentacles were gone. They could hear It withdrawing... and then the only sounds were Eddie panting and Beverly crying softly, one hand to her bleeding ear.

Bill struck one of their three remaining matches and they stared at each other with dazed, shocked faces. Bill's left arm was running with a thick, cloudy goo that looked like a mixture of partially congealed eggwhite and snot. Blood was trickling slowly down the side of Beverly's neck, and there was a fresh cut on Ben's cheek. Richie slowly pushed his glasses up on his nose.

"A-A-Are we all ruh-ruh-right?" Bill asked hoarsely.

"Are you, Bill?" Richie asked.

"Y-Y-Yeah." He turned to Eddie and hugged the smaller boy with fierce intensity. "You suh-suh-saved my luh-life, man."

"It ate your shoe," Beverly said, and uttered a wild laugh. "Isn't that too bad."

"I'll buy you a new pair of Keds when we get out of here," Richie said. He clapped Eddie on the back in the dark. "How did you do it, Eddie?"

"Shot it with my aspirator. Pretended it was acid. That's how it tastes after awhile if I'm having, you know, a bad day. Worked great."

"I'm doing the Mashed Potatoes all over It and I GOT A BROKEN ARM," Richie said, and giggled madly. "Not too shabby, Eds. Actually pretty chuckalicious, tell you what."

"I hate it when you call me Eds."

"I know," Richie said, hugging him tightly, "but somebody has to toughen you up, Eds. When you stop leading the sheltered igszistence of a child and grow up, you gonna, Ah say, Ah say you gonna find out life ain't always this easy, boy!"

Eddie began to shriek with laughter. "That's the shittiest Voice I ever heard, Richie."

"Well, keep that aspirator thing handy," Beverly said. "We might need it again."

"You didn't see It anywhere?" Mike asked. "When you lit the match?"

"Ih-Ih-It's g-g-gone," Bill said, and then added grimly: "But we're getting close to It. To the pluh-hace where Ih-It stuh-stuh-stays. And I th-think we h-h-hurt Ih-hit th-that time."

"Henry's still coming," Stan said. His voice was low and hoarse. "I can hear him back there."

"Then let's move out," Ben said.

They did. The tunnel progressed steadily downward, and that smell-that low wild stench-grew steadily stronger. At times they could hear Henry behind them, but now his cries seemed far away and not at all important. There was a feeling in all of them-similar to that feeling of skew and disconnection they had felt in the house on Neibolt Street-that they had progressed over the edge of the world and into some queer nothingness. Bill felt (although he did not have the vocabulary to express what he knew) that they were approaching Derry's dark and ruined heart.

It seemed to Mike Hanlon that he could almost feel that heart's diseased, arrhythmic beat. Beverly felt a sense of evil power growing around her, seeming to enfold her, certainly trying to split her off from the others and make her alone. Nervously, she reached out on either side of herself and clasped Bill's hand and Ben's. It seemed to her that she had to reach too far, and she called out nervously: "Hang onto hands! It's like we're moving away from each other!"

It was Stan who first realized he could see again. There was a low, strange radiance in the air. At first he could only see hands-his, clasping Ben's on one side and Mike's on the other. Then he realized he could see the buttons on Richie's muddy shirt and the Captain Midnight ring-just some junky cereal-box prize-that Eddie liked to wear on his little finger.

"Can you guys see?" Stan asked, coming to a stop. The others stopped, too. Bill looked around, first aware that he could see-a little, anyway-and then that the tunnel had widened out amazingly. They were now in a curved chamber easily as big as the Sunnier Tunnel in Boston. Bigger, he amended as he looked around with a growing sense of awe.

They craned their necks back to see the ceiling, which was now fifty feet or more above them, and held up by outcurving buttresses of stone like ribs. Nets of dirty cobweb hung between them. The floor was now stone-flagged, but overlaid with such a drift of ancient dirt that the quality of their footfalls had never changed. The up-curving walls were easily fifty feet away on either side.

"Waterworks must have really gone crazy down here," Richie said, and laughed uneasily.

"Looks like a cathedral," Beverly said softly.

"Where's the light coming from?" Ben wanted to know.

"Coming r-right out of the w-w-walls, looks l-like," Bill said.

"I don't like it," Stan said.

"Let's guh-go. H-H-Henry'll be breathing d-d-down our nuh-necks-"

A loud, braying cry split the gloom, and then the ruffling, heavy thunder of wings. A shape came cruising out of the dark, one eye glaring-the other was a dark lamp.

"The bird!" Stan screamed. "Look out, it's the bird!"

It dived at them like an obscene fighter-plane, Its plated orange beak opening and closing to reveal the pink inner lining of Its mouth, plush as a satin pillow in a coffin.

It went straight for Eddie.

Its beak raked his shoulder and he felt pain sink into his flesh like acid. Blood flowed down his chest. He cried out as the backwash of Its beating wings blew noxious tunnel air in his face. It wheeled back, Its eye glaring malevolently, rolling in Its socket, blurring only as Its nictitating eyelid jittered down momentarily to cover the eye with tissue-thin film. Its claws sought Eddie, who ducked, screaming. They razored through the back of his shirt, cutting it open, drawing shallow scarlet lines along his shoulderblades. Eddie yelled and tried to crawl away but the bird wheeled back again.

Mike broke forward, digging in his pocket. He came out with a one-blade Buck knife. As the bird dived on Eddie again, he swept it in a quick, tight arc across one of the bird's talons. It cut deep, and blood poured out. The bird banked away and then came back, folding Its wings, diving in like a bullet. Mike fell to one side at the last moment, slashing upward with the Buck knife. He missed, and the bird's claw hit his wrist with such force that his hand went numb and tingly-the bruise that later bloomed there went most of the way to his elbow. The Buck flew into the dark.

The bird came back, screeching triumphantly, and Mike rolled his body over Eddie's and waited for the worst.

Stan walked forward toward the two boys huddled on the floor as the bird returned. He stood, small and somehow trim in spite of the dirt grimed into his hands and arms and pants and shirt, and suddenly held his hands out in a curious gesture-palms up, fingers down. The bird uttered another squawk and sheared off, bulleting by Stan, missing him by inches, lifting his hair and then dropping it in the buffeting wake of Its passage. He turned in a tight circle to face Its return.

"I believe in scarlet tanagers even though I never saw one," he said in a high clear voice. The bird screamed and banked away as if he'd shot at it. "same with vultures, and the New Guinea mudlark and the flamingos of Brazil." The bird screamed, circled, and suddenly flew on up the tunnel, squawking. "I believe in the golden bald eagle!" Stan screamed after it. "And I think there really might be a phoenix somewhere! But I don't believe in you, so get the fuck out of here! Get out! Hit the road, Jack!"

He stopped then, and the silence seemed very large.

Bill, Ben, and Beverly went to Mike and Eddie; they helped Eddie to his feet and Bill looked at the cuts. "Nuh-not d-d-deep," he said. "But I b-bet they h-hurt like h-h-hell."

"It tore my shirt to pieces, Big Bill." Eddie's cheeks glistened with tears, and he was wheezing again. The bellowing barbarian's voice was gone; it was hard to believe it had ever been there. "What am I going to tell my mom?"

Bill smiled a little. "Why d-d-don't we wuh-worry about that when we g-g-g-get out of here? Give yourself a bluh-hast, E-Eddie."

Eddie did, inhaling deeply and then wheezing.

"That was great, man," Richie told Stan. "That was just frockin greatl"

Stan was shivering all over. "There's no bird like that, that's all. There never has been and there never will be."

"We're coming!" Henry screamed from behind them. His voice was utterly demented. He was laughing and howling now. He sounded like something that has crawled out of a crack in the roof of hell. "Me'n Belch! We're coming and we'll get you little punks! You can't get away!"

Bill shouted: "G-G-Get out, H-H Henry! W-W-While there's still tuh-tuh-time!"

Henry's response was a hollow, inarticulate scream. They heard a hustle of footsteps and in a burst of comprehension Bill understood Henry's whole purpose: he was real, he was mortal, he could not be stopped by an aspirator or a bird-book. Magic would not work on Henry. He was too stupid.

"C-C-Come oh-on. We guh-gotta stay a-a-ahead of h-h-him."

They went on again, holding hands, Eddie's tattered shirt flapping behind him. The light grew brighter, the tunnel ever huger. As it canted downward, the ceiling flew away above until they could barely see it. It now seemed to them that they were not walking in a tunnel at all but making their way through a titanic underground courtyard, the approach to some cyclopean castle. The light from the walls had become a running green-yellow fire. The smell was stronger, and they began to pick up a vibration that might have been real or might have been only in their minds. It was steady and rhythmic.

It was a heartbeat.

"It ends up ahead!" Beverly cried. "Look! It's a blank wall!"

But as they drew closer, antlike now on this great floor of dirty stone blocks, each block bigger than Bassey Park, it seemed, they saw that the wall was not entirely blank after all. It was broken by a single door. And although the wall itself towered hundreds of feet above them, the door was very small. It was no more than three feet high, a door of the sort you might see in a fairytale book, made of stout oaken boards bound with iron strips in an X-pattern. It was, they all realized at once, a door made only for children.

Ghostly, in his mind, Ben heard the librarian reading to the little ones: Who is that trip-trapping upon my bridge? The children lean forward, all the old fascination glistening in their eyes: will the monster be bested... or will It feed?

There was a mark on the door, and heaped at its foot was a pile of bones. Small bones. The bones of God alone knew how many children.

They had come to the place of It.

The mark on the door, then: what was that?

[Image of an alien mark, rather like a chinese symbol]

Bill marked it as a paper boat.

Stan saw it as a bird rising toward the sky-a phoenix, perhaps.

Michael saw a hooded face-that of crazy Butch Bowers, perhaps, if it could only be seen.

Richie saw two eyes behind a pair of spectacles.

Beverly saw a hand doubled up into a fist.

Eddie believed it to be the face of the leper, all sunken eyes and wrinkled snarling mouth-all disease, all sickness, was stamped into that face.

Ben Hanscom saw a tattered pile of wrappings and seemed to smell old sour spices.

Later, arriving at that same door with Belch's screams still echoing in his ears, alone at the end of it, Henry Bowers would see it as the moon, full, ripe... and black.

"I'm scared, Bill," Ben said in a wavering voice. "do we have to?"

Bill toed the bones, and suddenly scattered them in a powdery, raiding drift with one foot. He was scared, too... but there was George to consider. It had ripped off George's arm. Were those small and fragile bones among these? Yes, of course they were.