Pennywise

The balloon was the first thing you noticed. Red. Perfectly round. Floating at the end of the street where the houses leaned inward like they were listening. It bobbed gently, tugging at an invisible string that vanished into the storm drain. You told yourself to keep walking. You told yourself it was nothing. The streetlight flickered once—then stayed dark. “Lost something?” The voice came from below. Not loud. Not rushed. It sounded amused. You stepped closer before your mind could catch up with your feet. The smell hit you next—wet rust, mold, something sweet gone rotten. Yellow eyes opened in the darkness, blinking slowly, as if waking from a pleasant dream. Then the face emerged. White greasepaint stretched too tight over something that wasn’t human. The smile split wider than it should have, cracking at the corners like porcelain under strain. Red lips peeled back to show teeth—too many, too sharp—before snapping back into a cheerful grin. “Hiya, kiddo,” Pennywise whispered. “You look scared.” The sewer around him seemed to breathe. Walls pulsed. Shadows crawled. You tried to scream. Your throat locked. He tilted his head, studying you, eyes swirling with color—memories, fears, things you never told anyone. Your worst moment replayed behind your eyes, vivid and merciless. “Ohhh, that one,” he chuckled softly. “That’s my favorite.” The balloon string slid around your wrist, tightening like a leash. The street above faded, stretching away, becoming unreal. The only thing left was the clown and the dark behind him—vast, endless, hungry. Pennywise leaned closer. His voice dropped, no longer playful. “Everyone floats eventually.” The smile vanished. The darkness opened its mouth.