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Title: IT Chapter: Three/? Rating: R Spoilers: Up to and including the last season shown. Beta Reader: Scotty Welles Summary: Alt-Buffy/IT verse and crossover. What if Willow was the seventh member of the choosen group instead of Ben. Disclaimer: Nope, don't belong to me. It is from Stephan Kings imagination and excellent writing, and so are the characters. <><><><><><><> Summer Of 1989 <><><><><><><> Willow ate the sandwich Bill gave her greedily. Every muscle in her body hurt from the last two days, and if felt great. She leaned into Bev and grinned at Oz as he went into another outrageous tale. The creek below them slapped over the bank, running along it, spreading out over the ground below the hill they were sitting on. Dark brown water spun in a cyclone, splashing over the dam. "Red, youse is a genius! Why, we can flood out the entire Barrens and holds it for hostage!" Stan snorted at Oz. "Hostage for what?" "Why, for chocolate, of course! It's the drug of choice, the food of the century, the greatest invention ever." "Uh-huh, and just how would you go about this?" Oz bounced to his feet and puffed out his chest. He opened his mouth and began a speech. "R-R-R-Richie, I-I-I need t-to t-t-tell y-y-you so-so-something." Oz sat back down, all joking forgotten. Everyone could feel the shift in the air. They were no longer 11-year-olds, carefree and playful. Now they were mature people, having to be serious and take charge of something that no one else seemed to know. "A-a-after my bro-ther d-died, I went i-into his r-room a-a-a-nd started to l-look t-t-through h-his ph-ph-ph....pic-t-t-ture album. H-h-h-his school p-p-p-pict-ture, i-i-i-t m-m-m-moved." Bill took a deep breath, clenching his fists as he tried to force the words out. "H-he m-m-moved his he-he-head and w-winked at me. W-when I t-threw it away, t-the album s-s-s-star-r-r-rted f-f-f-flipping and b-began tto ble-ble-ble-bleed. M-m-my p-parents ccouldn't s-s-s-see it." Eddie gasped for breath and closed his eyes, the story triggering something he'd rather forget. Most Saturdays he didn't have anyone to hang out with, so he'd ride his bike around the old train yards by Neibolt Street. He was fascinated with the trains that would come by. The speed and the slick build of the machines. He loved the way the six tracks weaved in and out of the yards. Trains would fly by, so fast that they were a blur of whistles and metal. Sometimes crates would fall off, or the workers would throw them off. Once a worker had thrown a large crate of lobsters off, yelling at him to take them home to his momma. The only thing that really scared him about the train yards were the hobos. They would ride in on the trains and jump off for a few days. Their skin was dried and sunken in. Always drunk and asking for cigarettes. Begging for food and drink. There was a house next to the train yards. It had been abandoned for a number of years. The paint was chipped and rusted. The windows so dirty they were black from years of neglect. The rickety porch was gaped with broken boards. The yard was overgrown with weeds and crab grass, almost as tall as Eddie. The porch stood three feet off the ground, leaving a gap under the porch where people could see the basement windows. One particular day, the sky had grayed as though a storm was coming. The quiet was deafening, nothing brave enough to break it. He'd wandered over to the house, curiosity piquing his interest. He'd seen the house before, always wondering about its history. The porch creaked in warning as an old hobo crawled out from under it. He smiled through browned checkered teeth, his face splitting sickeningly through the dried disease that covered it. Eddie had begun to back away nervously from him. His nose was missing one nostril, letting him see right into the red, scabby channel. "I'll give you a blow job for a quarter." Eddie felt his stomach churning dangerously. "I don't have a quarter." "I'll do it for a dime." The hobo cackled, reaching down to the disgusting lime green flannel pants, torn and stained, with dried vomit on his crotch. He unzipped his fly, and reached in. "I don't have a dime either." Eddie glanced back, trying to project himself to his bike. He swallowed through a dry throat as he realized that the hobo had leprosy. He gagged and ran for his bike, jumping on it chaotically. He felt the hobo on his rear and pedaled even faster. "Come here, kid, don't you want a blow job? I'll even give it for free." His chest tightened, warning him of the oncoming asthma attack, yet he pedaled even faster. If he could just make it to the Barrens... Oz snorted at him. "He didn't have no Leprosy, he had syph." "Is there such a thing?" Bill nodded solemnly. "Y-y-yeah, i-i-i-t's a f-f-f-ucking d-d-disease." Eddie looked to Willow for confirmation. The redhead nodded slyly, and leaned closer to Bev. "But what does it do?" Oz grinned evilly at him. "It makes your body rot. Your nose goes first, sometimes it falls off completely. Then your cock..." "D-d-d-do y-y-you m-m-m-ind? I j-j-j-just ate." Oz held up his hands up in mock surrender, but the look on his face was anything but sorry. "There's more." Six weeks after the run in he'd found himself standing outside the house, held by a sick fascination with the house. He sensed something inherently wrong with it, and despite his fear, he wanted to know what. He wanted to run, he wanted to just flee and never come back, but some force outside himself was pushing him here, and here he was. Waiting for something to happen. He stood still in the yard, gripping his inhaler against his chest as he watched the house slide toward him. He stared down at his feet just to make sure he hadn't moved, and looked back up, to see the house still coming towards him. Curiosity took over and he bent over to look under the porch, not surprisingly there was no one there. The hobos that came to Derry rarely stayed beyond the September to November months. During the summers it was too hot for them here, and during the winter it was too cold. Usually covered in snow throughout the season. The only signs of any occupation were the dirty, broken, bottles of booze. Shredded, stiff blankets that were covered in bodily waste and vomit. A shoe that lay on its side. The sole half hanging off, with shoelaces that were frayed beyond use. Unwittingly, he crawled under the porch, gasping until he saw lights in his eyes. His hands splayed over faded newspapers, straw and leaves that had been used for bedding. They crinkled with no sound under his weight. Pausing by the blanket, he picked it up, wrinkling his nose at the sewer smell, and tossed it aside, giving him a view of the basement window. The window was cracked, spidered out in a web. The dark brown dirt, sour waste and booze kept him from seeing inside. His chest tightened, sending him into a spin of wheezing breaths. He reached forward, using his long sleeve to wipe at the window. The thick covering smeared and moved, turning the navy blue sleeve black. The small circle he'd managed to get halfway clear let him see only pitch black. Sighing with relief, he started to back up. Unsure why, he paused by the porch exit and peered at the window. Screaming out in a wheezing breath as a face appeared. Whatever it was it had assumed the hobo's gut-wrenching appearance, turning it into a nightmarish vision. Skin split wide open around its face, in some places showing the dirty, yellowish-white bone underneath. Its lips were cracked, and chunks were missing from the thin layers of tissue. A gaping hole stood out in its left cheek, where he could see teeth and his sick, yellow, pus-leaking tongue. His nose was now entirely missing, snot and boogers dropped down onto his mouth. His tongue slurped out every few seconds to lick at his lips. Silver eyes stared back at him, winking as a large grin covered what was left of his face. He could tell that whatever this thing was it wasn't human; it just wasn't possible. Any human in that condition would be dead. The glass of the window burst towards him, the creature twisting through the window towards him. A deep-throated, scraping, inhuman voice made him scream inside that it was only a dream. "Ya want a blow job, Eddie? Ol' Bob Gray does it for a dime, fifteen for overtime, but I'm willing to do it anytime. Whattya say, Eddie?" The creature crawled towards him, wearing some sort of silver clown suit, beetles falling down onto his hands. His eyeball popped out of his right eye, the nerves decayed, hanging onto it by strands. The silver eye bobbed and bounced against his cheek. "Oops. Could ya help me, Eddie? Just pop it right back in there." Eddie pushed away from the porch, blindly walking backwards towards his bike. As scared and disgusted as he was, he just couldn't drag his eyes away. "Come with me, Eddie, it's fun down here. Your friends are waiting for you..." Gasping out, he sprinted towards his bike, leaping onto it and pedaling as fast as his short legs could handle it. Tears sat unshed in his eyes as he raced through the streets, too scared to stop, and even more scared to look back. The front wheel slammed into a stump, sending him to ground. Crying in earnest, he curled into a ball. The others sat around staring at the ground, each lost in their own fear. "It's real," Eddie whispered. "I-i-it's r-r-real. I-I-I-I d-d-didn't i-i-imagine it." Bev looked up at them. "I saw it, too." " I signed the release waiver, so feel free to put things in my slot anytime." - Charles Angels. Odo: Madam Ambassodor, I'm not like you. Every sixteen hours I revert to a liqiud. 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