ISAAC BLAIR IT Waits Where Fear Sleeps IT Waits Where Fear Sleeps:Children Lost In The Dead Lights Copyright © 2025 by Isaac Blair All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. First edition This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy. Find out more at reedsy.com Contents 1 The Fog Over Derry 1903 1 2 What The Town Forgets 6 3 Echoes Of The Missing 12 4 Footsteps In The Fog 17 5 Whispers In The Dark 23 6 The Daylight Lies 32 7 The Throat Of Derry 39 8 No Way Out 49 9 Behind The Teeth Of IT 56 10 THE HUNT ABOVE 59 11 The Teeth Close In 64 12 Alone In The Dead Lights 68 1 The Fog Over Derry 1903 The fog came early that morning, rolling in thick and gray from the Kendall Stream. It wrapped itself around the rooftops and gas lamps of Derry like a heavy shroud, muffling the sound of wagon wheels and the soft chatter of shopkeepers unlocking their doors. The town seemed half-asleep, caught between dream and waking, where every echo lingered just a little too long. To a stranger, Derry might have seemed pleasant enough—a quiet mill town with its cobblestone streets, the scent of pine from the nearby woods, and children’s laughter drifting faintly through the mist. But to those who lived there, there was always something in the air that couldn’t quite be named. Something just beneath the surface, like a faint hum that never stopped. Caleb Winslow felt it most on mornings like this. He stood at the edge of the street, hands buried in the pockets of his wool coat, watching the fog curl around the lampposts. His breath came out in small clouds, mixing with the mist until he couldn’t tell which was his. He was fifteen, though the dark circles under his eyes made him look older. For three weeks now, 1 IT WAITS WHERE FEAR SLEEPS he hadn’t slept much—not since his brother, Eli , had vanished. They said he’d probably run off. Kids did, sometimes— wandered into the woods or hopped a train out toward Bangor, looking for adventure. But Caleb knew his brother. Eli was only nine. He was scared of the woods, and he’d never step near the river without someone holding his hand. No, Eli hadn’t run away. Something else had taken him. The townsfolk didn’t talk about it, not directly. But Caleb could hear it in their lowered voices when he passed by, could feel their eyes on his back. There’d been other children before— disappearances that folks chalked up to accidents or bad luck. A body found in the quarry last spring, pale and cold as milk. Another gone without a trace two winters ago. Derry forgot quickly. It always had. Caleb kicked a stone across the street, watching it disappear into the fog. Somewhere far off, a train whistle wailed, long and mournful. Behind him, the door to Harrison’s General Store creaked open, and old Mrs. Harrison stepped out to sweep the steps. She nodded to Caleb, her gray hair pinned back tight beneath a shawl. “Still no sign?” she asked softly. Caleb shook his head. “No, ma’am. Sheriff says they’re still lookin’ near the stream.” Mrs. Harrison sighed and leaned on her broom. “That stream takes what it wants. Always has.” Her words hung in the air, strange and uneasy. Her eyes flicked toward the street drains, where the fog seemed to settle thicker than anywhere else. Caleb looked too, but saw only shadow and mist. 2 THE FOG OVER DERRY 1903 The rest of the morning passed in a kind of gray haze. Caleb walked the streets aimlessly, the soles of his boots slick with dew. The town clock tolled noon, echoing through the quiet like a heartbeat. At the corner by the iron bridge, he found something—just a scrap of paper fluttering near the railing. When he picked it up, he realized it was one of Eli’s school drawings: a smiling figure with long arms, the ink smudged from damp. He folded it carefully and tucked it in his coat pocket. When he got home, his mother was sitting by the window, her eyes hollow and far away. The house smelled of dust and candle wax. Eli’s toys still lay scattered near the hearth—wooden soldiers, a half-finished puzzle, a small paper boat folded neatly on the table. Caleb’s throat tightened as he picked it up. The edges were damp, the paper soft and fraying. “Caleb,” his mother said quietly, her voice brittle. “They’ll find him. They must.” He nodded, though he didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe anything anymore. That night, the fog pressed against the windowpane like a living thing. The house groaned, the timbers settling, and somewhere deep below—in the drains or tunnels that wound beneath Derry—Caleb thought he heard the faintest sound of water moving. Nothing more. Just water. He turned over, trying to sleep. But even in his dreams, Derry seemed to watch him. Morning bled into afternoon without much change. The fog never lifted, only thinned in places where the pale sun pushed through, casting the town in a sickly gray glow. The mill’s whistle sounded from the riverfront, dull and distant, and men in worn coats trudged through the haze toward another long shift. Caleb wandered toward the old market square , where the 3 IT WAITS WHERE FEAR SLEEPS cobblestones were slick from last night’s rain. The vendors stood behind their carts, their voices hushed as if afraid to break the stillness that clung to the air. “Apples, fresh from Bangor!” one called out, his tone half- hearted. Another woman sold ribbons and sewing thread, though no one stopped to buy. Even the horses seemed quieter today, their breath steaming in rhythm with the muted clatter of hooves. Caleb stopped near the edge of the square and stared at the notice board nailed to the wall outside the post office. Flyers and announcements layered it thick—lost pets, harvest dances, and sermons from the church on High Street. Near the bottom, half-hidden beneath the edges of other papers, was a small poster : Missing: Eli Winslow, age nine. Last seen near Kendall Stream, September 18th. Any information, please report to Sheriff Mathers. The ink had run from the rain, and someone had tacked another flyer over part of it—a faded carnival advertisement from a year ago, showing a grinning clown holding balloons. Caleb tore the edge back just enough to see Eli’s name again. “Still lookin’ for your brother, eh?” The voice came from behind him. Caleb turned to see Mr. Grayson , the town’s undertaker, standing in his long black coat. His thin face was pale as chalk, his eyes sharp but not unkind. He always looked like he’d just stepped out of the shadows, even in daylight. “Yes, sir,” Caleb answered. “Ain’t found nothin’ yet.” Grayson nodded slowly. “Strange, how often this town forgets. 4 THE FOG OVER DERRY 1903 You’d think the ground’d be too full by now.” Caleb frowned, unsure what he meant, but before he could ask, the undertaker tipped his hat and disappeared into the fog, leaving behind the faint scent of smoke and old cedar. By dusk, the lamps along Main Street flickered to life. The fog turned amber under their glow, curling and shifting like it had a mind of its own. Caleb headed home, the road quiet except for the crunch of gravel under his boots. As he passed the schoolyard , he stopped. Something lay near the swing set—a shoe, small, worn at the heel. He picked it up and brushed off the dirt, his stomach tightening. It looked like Eli’s. He turned it over in his hand, uncertain, when he heard faint giggling from somewhere beyond the fog. Children’s laughter. But when he looked around, the yard was empty. The swings moved slightly, creaking on their chains. A chill ran down his neck. He set the shoe back down where he’d found it and hurried off, telling himself it was just the wind playing tricks. Derry’s fog had a way of carrying sounds where they didn’t belong. Everyone knew that. By the time he reached home, the lamps inside were dim and his mother had already gone to bed. He sat by the window for a long while, staring into the street. The fog was thicker than ever now, pressing close to the glass. Somewhere out there, something stirred—a ripple of move- ment he couldn’t quite see. Caleb closed the curtains. 5 2 What The Town Forgets The morning light was pale and cold, creeping through the fog that hadn’t yet lifted from the streets of Derry. Caleb pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked toward the schoolhouse, his boots crunching on frost-bitten gravel. The bell hadn’t rung yet, but he could already hear the faint murmur of children’s voices inside — laughter, teasing, the kind of careless noise that filled empty halls. It had been three weeks since Eli disappeared, and this was Caleb’s first day back. He paused by the steps, staring up at the schoolhouse door. The red paint was peeling, the brass handle dull from years of small hands gripping it. He’d passed this building every day since he was a boy, but it looked different now. Smaller, quieter. Like it was holding its breath. When he stepped inside, the room fell into an awkward hush. Dozens of eyes turned toward him — some curious, some pitying, a few trying not to look at all. The air smelled of chalk dust and old wood. “Mr. Winslow,” said Miss Carroway , the teacher, from her 6 WHAT THE TOWN FORGETS desk at the front. Her tone was polite but strained, the way people sounded when they didn’t know what to say. “You’re back, I see. That’s good. Your seat’s still there, by the window.” Caleb nodded and made his way down the narrow aisle. He could feel their stares following him. Someone whispered something under their breath, followed by a stifled laugh. He ignored it and sat down, setting his books neatly on the desk. Miss Carroway cleared her throat and went back to the lesson. “Now then, we were reviewing state history yesterday. Who can tell me when Maine first joined the Union?” A few hands shot up. Caleb didn’t listen. His eyes drifted out the window to the fog rolling across the field behind the schoolhouse. The trees at the edge looked like dark figures standing guard. He used to meet Eli there after school, throwing stones into the stream that cut through the woods. He wondered if the stream still sounded the same — the soft trickle over rocks, the hum that always seemed to echo underneath. “Caleb,” Miss Carroway said gently. He blinked and turned back. “Yes, ma’am?” “Eighteen-twenty,” she said with a small smile. “That’s when Maine joined.” “Oh. Right.” He nodded quickly, though he hadn’t asked the question. A few kids chuckled, and Miss Carroway gave them a sharp look. When recess came, Caleb stayed inside. The others ran out into the yard, their laughter fading into the distance. He opened his book and stared at the words without reading them. His thoughts kept slipping — to the fog, the drains, the sound of moving water. After a while, he noticed someone standing beside his desk. A boy about his age — maybe a little older — with sandy hair and 7 IT WAITS WHERE FEAR SLEEPS a worn cap tucked under his arm. His clothes were patched but clean. “You’re Eli Winslow’s brother, ain’t you?” the boy asked. Caleb hesitated. “Yeah. Caleb.” The boy nodded. “I’m Samuel Reed. My pa works down at the mill.” He shifted awkwardly. “Sorry about your brother.” “Thanks,” Caleb said quietly. Samuel lingered for a second, like he wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then he nodded again and headed outside. When the others came back in, two girls whispered near the window. Caleb caught a few words — the river , the old drains , his brother . One of them noticed him looking and quickly turned away. At the end of the day, Miss Carroway dismissed them early. The fog had grown thick again, curling low across the ground. Caleb walked alone down the dirt road, his satchel slung over one shoulder. Ahead of him, he could see Samuel and another boy walking together, their laughter faint through the mist. He almost called out to them — almost — but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he turned off toward the bridge that crossed the stream. The water below moved slow and dark, carrying fallen leaves downstream. He leaned on the railing, watching. The fog hung over the surface like a veil. Somewhere nearby, he heard the faint clatter of stones shift- ing — maybe a squirrel, maybe just the water moving the bank. But as he listened closer, it almost sounded like a hum. Low, steady, and strange — as if the earth itself were breath- ing. Caleb straightened, glancing around. The sound stopped. He took one last look at the water, then turned toward home, 8 WHAT THE TOWN FORGETS unaware that a small piece of white paper had caught on the bridge post behind him — one of Eli’s old drawings, soggy and half-torn, flapping gently in the fog. The sound faded as suddenly as it had come, leaving Caleb standing by the bridge, the fog brushing against his coat. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he took a slow breath, shook off the chill crawling up his spine, and followed the narrow dirt path that wound into the trees. He hadn’t planned to go anywhere in particular — just walking to keep his thoughts from turning back to Eli — but his feet led him toward a clearing tucked deep behind the schoolyard, a place the older kids called The Grove . It wasn’t much: just a circle of moss-covered stumps, a half-collapsed wooden bench, and an old fire ring filled with damp ashes. But it was away from town, away from the whispers. When Caleb stepped into the clearing, he heard voices — not strange ones this time, but laughing, human ones. He froze, half ready to turn back, but then a familiar figure waved from the bench. “Hey, Winslow! Didn’t think you’d find this place,” Samuel called, his grin easy. He was sitting with three others — two girls and another boy, all about Caleb’s age. They looked up as he approached, curiosity written clear on their faces. Caleb hesitated. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I was just—” “Aw, don’t be like that,” Samuel said, patting the stump beside him. “This spot’s for everyone. Sit, before the fog eats ya.” The others laughed softly. Caleb managed a small smile and stepped closer. The taller girl, with dark curls tied back in a ribbon, spoke first. “You’re Caleb, right? I’m Martha Ellison . My pa runs the 9 IT WAITS WHERE FEAR SLEEPS printing shop on Main Street.” Next to her sat a quieter girl with pale hair and a book in her lap. “I’m Clara Pierce ,” she said softly. “I like to come out here to read, but these fools talk too much.” “That’s Henry , by the way,” Samuel added, nodding to the last boy — a freckled kid with dirt on his knees and an easy smirk. “He thinks he can out-run a train.” Henry grinned. “Almost did once. Would’ve made it if I hadn’t tripped over my own feet.” They all laughed, and Caleb found himself laughing too — a real laugh, not the forced one he’d used around adults. It felt strange in his chest, but good. The group talked for a while about nothing important: the dull lessons Miss Carroway droned through, the mill whistle that never seemed to stop, a stray dog that had taken up near the bakery. The kind of things that filled quiet days in Derry. Samuel tossed small pebbles into the dead fire pit, counting how many skips they’d make off the stones. For the first time in weeks, Caleb didn’t think about the missing posters or the looks people gave his family. The fog still lingered between the trees, but here it felt thinner, lighter somehow. Martha leaned back against a stump. “Y’know, not many folks come out this way anymore,” she said. “My ma says the woods are bad luck.” Henry rolled his eyes. “Everything’s bad luck if you ask your ma.” “Maybe,” she said with a grin, “but I like it here. Feels quiet.” “Quiet’s good,” Caleb said before he could stop himself. The others nodded, and for a while they just sat listening to the wind through the branches. 10 WHAT THE TOWN FORGETS As the light began to fade, Samuel nudged Caleb. “You comin’ back tomorrow? We usually meet here after school.” Caleb hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah... I think I will.” They all smiled, and for a brief moment, it felt like the fog around Derry didn’t matter — like maybe he could forget for a while, too. When they parted ways, Caleb walked home under a sky the color of smoke. He could still hear the faint echo of laughter behind him, tangled somewhere in the trees. For the first time in a long while, the sound made him feel something close to peace. Caleb made his way home and when he got home his mom noticed that he was in a way more happy mood. “Hey look at you, haven’t seen that smile in a long time.” said ma, “yeah I was hanging out with my friend’s and I had a good time” said Caleb, “well that’s great you go rest now I love you.” said ma, “I love you too” said Caleb and he went to sleep. 11 3 Echoes Of The Missing The Grove sat tucked behind the far edge of the forest, where the trees grew thin and the sun spilled freely through the branches. The air smelled of pine sap and wet earth, and the stream that ran nearby hummed softly, winding through the roots like a hidden heartbeat. It had become their spot now — Caleb, Sam, Martha, Clara, and Henry. They gathered there most afternoons after school, trading jokes, stories, and the occasional dare. For a while, it felt like the kind of place where time slowed down. Caleb sat on a fallen log, tossing pebbles into the stream. The others chatted idly, their voices floating in the soft light. Martha was teasing Henry about his terrible handwriting, and Clara was half-listening, her sketchbook resting open on her knees. Sam leaned against a tree, humming lowly — the same tune Caleb swore he’d heard once before in the woods. For a moment, Caleb almost forgot about everything else. Almost. Then Sam spoke up, his tone quiet but curious. “You’ve been quiet today,” he said. “Something on your 12 ECHOES OF THE MISSING mind?” Caleb hesitated. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something about The Grove — something about them — that made him feel safe enough to speak. The words lingered in his throat, heavy and sharp. “Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s... about my brother.” The group went still. Even the birds seemed to hush. Caleb took a slow breath. “His name was Eli. He went missing last spring. My folks said he was out by the quarry, but no one ever found him. Not even a sign. The police said he probably ran off, but... he wouldn’t. Not Eli.” Martha frowned softly. “I’m sorry, Caleb. That’s awful.” “Yeah,” Clara murmured. “Did they ever find anything? Like, anything at all?” He shook his head. “Nothing. After a few weeks, people stopped asking. Like he never existed.” Sam’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I... I heard about him,” he said quietly. “Before you moved here, there were posters up. My dad said it was just another one.” Caleb looked at him, brow furrowed. “Another one?” Sam glanced at the others before answering. “It’s not just your brother, Caleb. Kids go missing here more often than people talk about. My mom says Derry’s cursed — that the town forgets because it has to.” Henry scoffed. “That’s just superstition.” “Maybe,” Sam said. “But it keeps happening, doesn’t it?” The group fell silent again. The stream trickled softly, the wind brushing through the leaves. Martha hugged her knees. “Why doesn’t anyone ever do anything about it?” “Because,” Sam muttered, “people don’t like to remember. 13 IT WAITS WHERE FEAR SLEEPS It’s easier that way.” Caleb stared into the water, watching the ripples twist and fade. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw something move beneath the surface — a faint shimmer, like a reflection that didn’t belong to anyone there. When he blinked, it was gone. The others kept talking in low voices, piecing together names they’d half-heard — classmates who’d vanished, children from other neighborhoods. The list grew longer the more they thought. Clara’s voice trembled when she finally said it aloud. “Why do so many kids go missing in Derry?” No one answered. The sun dipped lower through the trees, and a chill crept over The Grove. The laughter they’d shared only a week ago felt distant now, replaced by a quiet they couldn’t shake — a silence that seemed to listen. And somewhere, far beyond the forest’s edge, something listened back. The words hung in the air, heavier than Caleb expected. Clara’s question had opened something inside the group — a shared unease that pressed down like the fog rolling through Derry. “Think about it,” Sam said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “It’s not just Eli. There’s always another one. Always a new kid gone, and people just... forget. Pretend it never happened.” Martha chewed her lip, frowning. “I’ve heard stories about kids disappearing near the river, or by the old factory. My cousin even said someone vanished right behind the school a few years back. But no one talks about it. Not really.” Henry kicked at a small stone, sending it skittering into the stream. “And nobody finds ‘em,” he muttered. “I mean... no 14