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chapter twelve the nightmare on neibolt street
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The Well House on Neibolt Street was a tragedy in itself. It was a house built without kindness. It was never meant to be lived in nor was it ever fit for a living creature pure of soul to step foot inside. It was a house without hope, without reason; an evil entity meant to be feared not cared for. It was a disease, plaguing and spreading across its grounds, swallowing whole the creatures that dared to walk across its premises. No exorcism or ritual could cleanse the town of its disease. Well House was not just a house, it was a monster with skin and bones and a face just like any other of creature. And it would remain that way until it was ripped brick from brick, floorboard from floorboard, and left to starve.
The Losers' Club were like small creatures daring to be swallowed whole by the monster. Each of them were frail and ripped at the edges; the perfect meal fit for a monster with an unquenchable appetite. As they rode closer to the house, Jill began to feel she had a price on her head; a price to define what she was worth. And in the eyes of the Well House, Jill Samson was nothing more than prey.
When they arrived, Beverly hopped off her bike and threw it to the ground. "Bill, you can't go in there. This is crazy," she shouted, throwing her hands up in the air. The other preteens gathered around her, piling into the house's front yard and staring up at the boy who was brave enough to step foot on the monster's skin.
Jill drifted her eyes across the premises, swallowing hard as chills pricked her skin. She averted her gaze to the boy standing in front of the entrance. "Bill, if we go in there we'll die," she said, her voice hoarse and dry. Her hand subconsciously drifted to her neck as she remembered the way It's relentless grip strangled the life out of her body.
Bill slowly lifted his hand from the doorknob and turned to face the Losers' Club. He looked older standing before them; like the past months had aged him twice his actual age. His eyes were dull, no longer holding the bright emerald tint that would shine in the sun. A frown had replaced the small smile he always used to flash at people, and his skin was pale almost like he was a ghost of his past self—a shell of a boy who had witnessed too much.
