The Welcome Wagon

The Welcome Committee of Derry, Maine, had never failed to make a newcomer feel at home. Lilly Bainbridge, its chairwoman, believed that a perfectly baked casserole and a firm handshake could cure any misgivings about moving to a town where the sewers occasionally burped and children drew chalk outlines of things better left unnamed. Today, the committee had its sights set on the old Hanlon house—vacant for years, now occupied by a peculiar family named Gray.

Lilly adjusted her floral-print dress in the rearview mirror of her station wagon. In the passenger seat, Marge Truman dabbed at her lipstick. "Wait till they try my powdered donuts," Marge said, patting a Tupperware container. "They'll think they died and went to heaven."

"If they don't die from the sugar first," muttered Veronica Grogan from the back, clutching a clipboard. Veronica was the committee's reluctant member, drafted because of her supposed 'people skills'—a euphemism for her ability to fake a smile while plotting escape. "You read the Rudy file? The last time you brought those, old Mr. Rudy had a diabetic episode."

"That was not my fault! He ate the whole tray."

"Because you left it on his porch with a note saying 'Eat all you want.'"

Lilly hushed them. "We're here."

The house stood at the end of Witcham Street, a two-story Victorian with peeling paint and a porch swing that creaked despite no wind. The lawn was overgrown, but someone had planted marigolds in a desperate burst of color. A sign hung crookedly from the gate: "The Grays - Welcome!"

"See? They're trying to fit in," Lilly said.

Marge nodded. "That's the spirit."

They were halfway up the walk when the front door opened. A man stepped out. He was tall, with pale skin and hair so red it looked like a fresh wound. His smile was wide, showing too many teeth. "Well, well. Visitors! How delightful."

Lilly extended a hand. "Mr. Gray? I'm Lilly Bainbridge, head of the Welcome Committee. We'd like to welcome you to Derry."

The man took her hand. His grip was cold and dry, like holding a bird's foot. "Robert Gray. Please, come in. My wife, Periwinkle, is just setting out some refreshments."

Veronica's radar pinged. She'd read enough crime novels to know that 'refreshments' always preceded a trap. But Lilly was already inside, Marge close behind. Veronica sighed and followed.

The interior was dim, lit by candles that smelled of cinnamon and something slightly metallic. Periwinkle Gray stood by a table laden with cookies and a pitcher of iced tea. She was almost a twin to her husband: same pale skin, red hair, and too-wide smile. A little boy sat on the floor, drawing with crayons. He looked up, his eyes dark and empty.

"This is our son, Periwinkle Jr.," Robert said. "We call him Pennywise."

Lilly cooed. "What a precious name! And what's he drawing?"

She peered at the paper. It was a stick figure, but the proportions were wrong: arms too long, mouth a jagged slash. The figure was surrounded by balloons. "Oh, how creative!" Lilly said, though her smile felt strained.

"He has a vivid imagination," Periwinkle said, handing Marge a donut. "He used to be so shy in the city. But Derry—Derry has inspired him."

Marge bit into the donut and made a satisfied noise. "Delicious! What's the secret?"

"Buttermilk," Robert said. "And a pinch of something special."

Meanwhile, the boy—Pennywise—had stopped drawing. He was staring at Veronica, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. "You have a scar," he said.

Veronica touched her cheek, where a childhood accident had left a thin line. "I do."

"I can see it moving. Under your skin."

"Okay, little artist," Veronica said, stepping back. She caught Robert watching her with an amused expression.

"Don't mind him," Robert said. "He's sensitive to... textures."

Lilly, oblivious, launched into her spiel about library cards and garbage collection schedules. Marge seconded with tips on where to get the best meat. Veronica wanted to leave. She had a report due for the Derry Post about missing pets, and she suspected the Grays' cookies might be laced with something that made her eyelids heavy.

Suddenly, a crash came from the kitchen. Ricardo Santos, a young police officer, burst through the back door, gun drawn. "Everyone freeze!" He skidded to a stop, taking in the scene: cookies, tea, and the Gray family looking bewildered. "Uh, sorry. We got a call about a disturbance. Someone reported a clown chasing kids into this house."

"A clown?" Robert laughed. "How absurd. We don't own a clown. Periwinkle, do we own a clown?"

"No, dear. We have a clown costume for Pennywise, of course. He likes to dress up."

Ricardo holstered his weapon, embarrassed. "Sorry, folks. Must be a prank. I'll be on my way."

"Wait!" Lilly said. "Officer, you must try one of Marge's donuts."

He took one, politely. As he chewed, his eyes glazed over. "These are... really good."

Veronica's senses screamed. She'd seen that look before—on junkies. She grabbed Marge's arm. "We need to go. Now."

But Marge was helping herself to another donut. "Relax. We're making friends."

The afternoon wore on. Lilly talked about town history. Marge ate four donuts. Ricardo sat on the couch, staring blankly at a wall. Veronica tried to call William Hanlon, her fellow reporter, but her phone had no signal.

Pennywise, the boy, sidled up to her. "Do you want to see my room?"

"No, thanks."

"I have balloons."

"I don't care."

He giggled—a sound like paper tearing. "You will."

Veronica stood up. "We should go. Lilly, Marge, we really should go."

"Nonsense," Robert said, materializing behind her. "The night is young. And we haven't shown you our cellar."

"Cellar?" Lilly perked up. "I love a good cellar. So quaint."

"No, Lilly!" Veronica grabbed her arm. But Lilly shook her off.

"Don't be rude, Veronica."

Then the lights went out. The candles flickered and died. In the darkness, Veronica heard a wet, slithering sound. A heavy click as the front door locked.

"Mr. Gray?" Marge's voice quavered.

A match flared. Robert held a lantern, his face distorted by shadows. "Now, for the real welcome."

From the cellar stairs, something climbed. It was the boy, but his face was melting, reforming into a clown mask with a dead grin. "Welcome to Derry!" he shrieked, his voice a chorus of screams.

Ricardo snapped out of his stupor, drawing his gun. But Pennywise moved faster, his hand elongating to grab the officer's wrist. The gun clattered. Ricardo screamed as the hand tightened, crushing bone.

Marge fainted. Lilly backed into a corner, babbling about zoning laws. Veronica grabbed a vase and threw it at the clown's head. It passed through.

"You can't hurt me," Pennywise hissed. "I'm the soul of this town. I'm every shadow, every doubt, every forgotten pain."

He began to grow, his costume expanding to fill the room, his arms stretching like rubber bands. But then, a voice broke through: "Hey, you! Get away from them!"

William Hanlon, Veronica's colleague, stood in the kitchen doorway—he'd crawled through a window. He held a crowbar and a cross made of two pencils. "I've been researching you," William said. "You're not a god. You're a parasite. And parasites can be flushed."

He threw the cross. It hit Pennywise's forehead, sizzling like bacon. The clown howled, clawing at his face, and for a moment, his form flickered to reveal a pulsing, orange light inside.

"He's weak to symbols of belief!" William shouted. "Anything that represents faith!"

Veronica didn't have a cross. But she had her press badge. And she had words. "I believe in the truth," she said, holding up the badge like a shield. "And the truth is, you're nothing but a cheap trick."

Pennywise shrank back, shrieking. Robert and Periwinkle Gray, their human forms dissolving, rushed to protect their 'son.' But William swung the crowbar, connecting with Robert's skull. It caved in like a rotten pumpkin, releasing a flood of spiders.

Marge, waking from her faint, saw the spiders and shrieked. But in her panic, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small Bible her grandmother had given her. She held it up. "In the name of the Lord, I rebuke you!"

The room shook. The Gray family screamed, their bodies unraveling into a torrent of insects, balloons, and old coins. Then, silence. The lights flickered back on. The house was empty—no furniture, no cookies, just a dirt floor and a smell of wet ash.

They stumbled outside, gasping for air. Derry's streetlights flickered, but the sky was clear. Ricardo's arm was bruised but unbroken. They stood on the porch, trembling.

Lilly finally spoke: "Well, that was not a typical welcome."

Veronica laughed, a shaky, hysterical laugh. "No. But it sure was Derry."

They walked away, leaving the house to rot. But from the storm drain at the corner, a pair of yellow eyes watched. A red balloon rose, bobbing gently against the night sky. And from somewhere underground, a voice whispered, "You can't kill me. I'm an idea. And ideas are forever."

The Welcome Committee didn't hear it. But they felt a cold wind, and they walked a little faster, knowing that in Derry, the welcome never truly ends.