Please Be IT (IT x reader)

Intro

October 1988 in Derry Maine

Bill ripped a piece of paper out of his notebook, the sound of tearing echoing faintly through the quiet room. He folded it carefully, creasing each edge with focused precision until it began to take the familiar shape of a small paper boat. Across from him, his younger brother Georgie stood by the rain-speckled window, using his finger to draw a crooked smiley face in the condensation. The sky outside was gray, heavy with clouds that promised more rain.

"Sure I won't get in trouble, Bill?" Georgie asked, his voice small but hopeful as he turned toward his older brother.

"Don't be a-a-a wuss," Bill stuttered, glancing up from his work.
"I'd come with you if I weren't—" he broke off, coughing harshly into his elbow, "dying," he added dramatically.

Georgie sighed, crossing his arms. "You're not dying," he said, rolling his eyes.

"You didn't see the v-v-vomit coming out of my nose this morning," Bill shot back, his tone half serious, half teasing.

"That's disgusting," Georgie muttered, scrunching his nose.

"Okay. Go get the wax," Bill instructed, setting the finished paper boat down on his desk like it was a prized creation.

"In the cellar?" Georgie asked hesitantly.

"You want it to f-f-float, don't you?" Bill replied without looking up.

"Fine," Georgie huffed, turning to leave. His small footsteps echoed faintly as he walked out of Bill's room.

Downstairs, the house was dim and quiet except for the gentle notes of the piano drifting from the dining room. Their mother sat at the bench, lost in her music, completely unaware of her youngest creeping by. Georgie slowed his steps as he approached the cellar door. It loomed before him—old wood, chipped paint, and a brass handle that had dulled over time. He hesitated, chewing on his lip before sighing softly and gripping the doorknob.

The hinges groaned as the door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase that disappeared into darkness. A chill drifted up from below. Georgie stood there for a moment, peering down as if the shadows themselves might move. Then the walkie-talkie on his hip crackled to life.

"Georgie," Bill's voice came through, fuzzy but firm. "Hurry up."

Georgie jumped, startled by the sudden sound. "Okay, okay," he whispered to himself, taking a deep breath. He reached for the light switch and flicked it, but nothing happened. The bulb above him remained dark. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves.

"You're brave," he murmured under his breath. "You're brave."

Clutching the walkie-talkie tightly, Georgie started down the creaky steps, each one moaning under his weight. The air grew colder, the smell of damp wood and dust filling his nose. When he reached the bottom, he paused, his flashlight beam slicing through the blackness. Shadows stretched long across the concrete floor.

He scanned the cluttered space, old boxes and forgotten junk piled high against the walls. Then his eyes landed on what he was looking for—the can of golf wax, sitting neatly between two strange, weathered statues that seemed to be staring right at him.

As he reached for the wax, something caught his eye. In the far corner, two faint, glowing shapes shimmered in the dark. Georgie froze, his breath catching in his throat. They looked like eyes—watching him.