It

by Stephen King

an old flat can of Turtle wax. For some reason this can struck him, and he spent nearly thirty seconds looking at the turtle on the lid with a kind of hypnotic wonder. Then he tossed it back… and here it was at last, a square box with the word GULF on it.

That turtle, George thought, going to the counter drawer where the matches were kept. Where did I see a turtle like that before?

“Float?” The clown’s grin widened. “Oh yes, indeed they do. They float!

“They float,” it growled, “they float, Georgie, and when you’re down here with me, you’ll float, too—”

“Everything down here floats,”

Werewolves. The book by Denbrough—the one she had tried to read and then put aside—was about werewolves. Werewolves, shit. What did a man like that know about werewolves?

“The turtle couldn’t help us,”

The turtle couldn’t help us.

The face of a man who was heading out of the blue and into the black.

I would call the turtle, but the turtle couldn’t help us.

Out of the blue and into the black, yes, that was it. Where anything might be waiting.

dressed in a chambray shirt,

“You bet your fur,”

He thought the moon talked to him,

I know your grandfather died in his garage in Iowa City frigging around with his chainsaw while he was drunk.

“I can remember Stan doing his own hands last, pretending

he was going to slash his wrists instead of just cut his palms a little. I guess it was just some goof, but I almost made a move on him… to stop him. Because for a second or two there he looked serious.”

Or maybe it was the voice of the Turtle. Yes… I rather think it was that. I know it’s what Bill Denbrough would believe.

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.

It had come here long after the Turtle withdrew into its shell, here to Earth, and It had discovered a depth of imagination here that was almost new, almost of concern. This quality of imagination made the food very rich. Its teeth rent flesh gone stiff with exotic terrors and voluptuous fears: they dreamed of nightbeasts and moving muds; against their will they contemplated endless gulphs.

That long-distance silence fell again—all the miles between Maine and California. I believe we were both thinking the same thing: it was over, yes, and in six weeks or six months, we will have forgotten all about each other. It’s over, and all it’s cost us is our friendship and Stan and Eddie’s lives.

“And if you’re ever in L.A., you got the number. We’ll get together and mouth some chow.”

“Sure.” I felt hot tears behind my eyes. “And if you get back this way, the same thing goes.” “Mikey?” “Right here.” “I love you, man.” “Same here.”

“Okay. Keep your thumb on it.” “Beep-beep, Richie.” He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stick it in your ear, Mike. Ah say, in yo ear, boy.” He hung up and so did I. Then I lay back on my pillows wi...