The Dead Boys in the Standpipe

On a rainy April evening in 1958, Stanley Uris, an eleven-year-old boy with a fastidious nature and a passion for birdwatching, walked a mile and a half to Memorial Park. His father had told him that a rare male cardinal had been spotted drinking from the park's stone birdbath, and Stan, carrying his bird-book and Zeiss-Ikon binoculars in a waterproof sack, hoped to confirm the sighting. The air was misty and the light was fading, but Stan settled on a bench and trained his binoculars on the birdbath, watching sparrows, a bluejay, robins, a scarlet tanager, a flicker, and finally a cowbird. As he was about to leave, a hollow rolling boom startled the bird away. Stan traced the sound to the Derry Standpipe, a white, shingled cylinder that held one and three-quarters million gallons of water. He saw that the heavy door at its base, which should have been locked, was standing open, its padlock burst as if by an explosion. Driven by curiosity, Stan stepped inside. He heard faint calliope music and smelled popcorn and cotton candy, the enticing aromas of a carnival. He climbed a few steps, drawn by the sounds and smells, but then heard rustling, squishing footsteps descending toward him. Shadows bobbed on the wall above him, and the terror struck him like a physical blow. He saw two figures, slumped and unnatural, and as he turned to flee, the heavy door swung shut behind him, plunging him into darkness. The calliope music grew louder, now a dirge, and the wet footsteps approached. A voice, choked with mud and old water, spoke: "The dead ones, Stanley. We're the dead ones. We sank, but now we float ... and you'll float, too." Stan felt water washing around his feet and smelled wet decay. In desperation, he grabbed his bird-book from his pocket and, without thinking, began to shout the names of birds: "Robins! Gray egrets! Loons! Scarlet tanagers! Grackles! Hammerhead woodpeckers! Redheaded woodpeckers! Chickadees! Wrens!" The door behind him opened with a scream, and he fell backward onto the wet grass. From the dark doorway, he saw two sets of legs in jeans that had decayed to a purplish-black, with orange threads plastered against the seams. Water dripped from the cuffs, and their hands, too long and waxy-white, had small orange pompoms depending from each finger. One hand turned over, its palm eroded to an idiot-smooth surface, and a finger unrolled, beckoning him. Stan scrambled to his feet and ran, not stopping until he reached the far sidewalk. He later told the other Losers that the dead boys had not just frightened him; they had offended him, because they were things that were not supposed to be. The encounter established that the creature could take the form of the town's murdered children and that Stan's specific knowledge—his birds—could repel it, a lesson that would prove crucial in the final confrontation.