Mike looked at the several newspapers he had spread out on his desk. He sat, elbows on the desk, pouring over the words inked into the papers. They told stories of murders. Children disappearing by the dozens. Body parts, that have been seemingly dismembered and gnawed on, found in the quarry.
Mike had a bad taste in his mouth every time he saw another story about another kid turning up missing. He didn't do anything about it the first couple of newspapers he read, but now, it's clear what's happening.
It's back. And It's hurting and killing more children.
Mike sighed, rubbing his temples. He didn't want to do this, but he had to. The only reason he waited so long was to make sure this was correlated. To make sure he was right before he imposed upon his old friends' lives.
He kept track of where they were ever since they left Derry. Just in case. Just in case this very thing would happen. Again.
Mike reached over to grab the library's telephone. He set it done, still nervous about ringing them so late. He stood, going to his personal mini fridge he put in his office of the library. He got out a bottle of scotch he saved for events that he knew would give him a headache.
He poured himself a glass, raising it to noone in particular, and drank.
It went down smoothly, and helped to lessen the migraine that was probing its way into his head.
He sat back down with a short 'oof' and picked up the phone again.
He had a list of his old friends' numbers, and dialed that on the top of his list.
It rang only once before being picked up, "Hello?" Stan's voice had deepened with age, but kept a familiar characteristic that it had always held. Stan's voice was always strained, cracking in some places.
"Stanley Uris?" Mike had to be sure, though the voice sent him into pleasing memories that none other could.
"Yes. Who is this?" Mike could almost see Stan tilting his head just a smidge to the right.
"Mike. Hanlon. We knew each other when you lived in-"
"Derry." Stan's voice cracked. "What do you need, Mike?" He seemed more tense now, and Mike understood. Remembering Derry couldn't be easy.
"When we were younger, we made a promise. That if something started again, we'd all come back to Derry. Stanley, It's started again."
Stan held confusion in his voice, "What? What's started..." He trailed off, and something told Mike that he didn't need to answer Stan's question.
Stan went silent.
Mike let him think before asking, "Can you come back?"
Stan's silence remained.
Mike furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, "Stan? Are you there? Stan?"
Mike heard rustling, and another, more feminine voice spoke through the phone, "Hello? Who's this?"
Mike shook his head. Stan left the phone. Surely he wouldn't just leave. Mike would have to ask him again later. After he talked to the others. "Nevermind, ma'am. I'll have to get back to Stan again later."
He heard her bid him a pleasant goodnight and hung up the phone.
Mike went to call the others, who agreed immediately, although he heard what sounded like disputes on both Beverly Marsh's and Eddie Kaspbrak's ends.
Mike called Stanley's number again after some time passed. His headache was increasing and he'd already gone through another cup of scotch and half a pot of coffee.
The phone was picked up after several rings this time, Mike counted five, and the feminine voice from before was practically hysterical, "I'm sorry. I-I can't speak right now." She was sobbing.
Mike frowned deeply, "Ma'am, I need to speak to Stanley Uris. It's urgent business."
The woman wailed in his ear.
"Ma'am, are you alright? Where's Stan?" Mike spoke in an even more gentle voice, seeing as she was clearly upset, and he had no clue as to why.
"He..." She tried to breathe, her voice shook just a little bit less, "I-I'm so sorry. St-Stan, my husband, he, he k-killed..." She choked up again, "He killed himself not l-long after you called."
Mike swallowed a lump in his throat, "I'm... I'm so sorry, ma'am." Blood started to rush in his ears. He felt his hands go sweaty, and he had to clench his jaw in order to keep his voice clear, "I'm sorry to bother you. Goodbye, ma'am." He didn't want to keep her on the line when she was so distraught.
She mumbled a raspy goodbye to him and hung up again.
Mike leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. The news was slow to kick in, like a car crash, it's something you couldn't expect to happen.
Mike decided he wouldn't call and tell any of the others. It'd be unfair for them to hear something like this over the phone, even though that had just happened to him. Though, he knew none of them would even remember Stan.
Mike held his head, stumbling to get his bottle of scotch again. He filled his cup to the brim, raising it like he had before, but this time, it wasn't to noone. It was to Stan.
He drank the liquid fire in one go, set down his cup on the top of his cooler, and started to walk home.
The storm that swept the small town that night might have, in some small, odd way, been started by a single tear that dripped down the cheek of a lonely Mike Hanlon, and fell to the sidewalk. It very well could have been the start of the biggest rain storm since 1957, which swept a small boy's paper boat down into the hold of the very thing who's memory caused Stanley Uris' suicide.
