It: A Novel
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“A landmark in American literature” (Chicago Sun-Times)—Stephen King’s #1 national bestseller about seven adults who return to their hometown to confront a nightmare they had first stumbled on as teenagers…an evil without a name: It.
Welcome to Derry, Maine. It’s a small city, a place as hauntingly familiar as your own hometown. Only in Derry the haunting is real.
They were seven teenagers when they first stumbled upon the horror. Now they are grown-up men and women who have gone out into the big world to gain success and happiness. But the promise they made twenty-eight years ago calls them reunite in the same place where, as teenagers, they battled an evil creature that preyed on the city’s children. Now, children are being murdered again and their repressed memories of that terrifying summer return as they prepare to once again battle the monster lurking in Derry’s sewers.
Readers of Stephen King know that Derry, Maine, is a place with a deep, dark hold on the author. It reappears in many of his books, including Bag of Bones, Hearts in Atlantis, and 11/22/63. But it all starts with It.
“Stephen King’s most mature work” (St. Petersburg Times), “It will overwhelm you… to be read in a well-lit room only” (Los Angeles Times).
huge paw, and flagged it furiously, grinning all the time. To the bemused Mr. Nell the boy looked like a hideous parody of Franklin D. Roosevelt. “Thank you, boy,” Mr. Nell said, retrieving his hand. “Ye want to work on that a bit. As of now, ye sound about as Irish as Groucho Marx.” The other boys laughed, mostly in relief. Even as he was laughing, Stan shot Richie a reproachful look: Grow up, Richie! Mr. Nell shook hands all around, gripping Ben’s last of all. “Ye’ve nothing to be ashamed
seized his neck. “Nuh-Nuh-NO!” Bill cried, and reached for the picture. Reached into the picture. “Stop it, Bill!” Richie shouted, and grabbed for him. He was almost too late. He saw the tips of Bill’s fingers go through the surface of the photograph and into that other world. He saw the fingertips go from the warm pink of living flesh to the mummified cream color that passed for white in old photos. At the same time they became small and disconnected. It was like the peculiar optical
freight-train charged by on the railway embankment as Eddie Kaspbrak neared the halfway point, and the sudden blast of its airhorn caused him to jiggle on the edge of balance. He looked into the bright water and for one moment, between the sunflashes that darted arrows of light into his eyes, he actually saw the cruising piranhas. They were not part of the make-believe that went with Bill’s jungle safari fantasy; he was quite sure of that. The fish he saw looked like oversized goldfish with the
were tiny sharp slivers like blowgun darts. The wallpaper (rose-runners and capering elves, as in the hall) was peppered with holes all the way around the room. It looked like shotgun blasts but Ben knew it was more porcelain, driven into the walls by the force of the explosion. There was a bathtub standing on claw feet with generations of grimy toe-jam between the blunt talons. Ben peeked into it and saw a tidal-flat of silt and grit on the bottom. A rusty showerhead glared down from above.
on by the Jolly Green Giant, Bill.” Bill could hear water or sewage running in controlled bursts through the network of smaller pipes which now must be over their heads. He remembered the conversation about Derry’s sewers with his father and thought he knew what this pipe must be—it was to handle the overflow that only occurred during heavy rains and during the flood season. The stuff up there would be leaving Derry to be dumped in Torrault Stream and the Penobscot River. The city didn’t like to