If there are ten thousand medieval peasants who create vampires by believing them real, there may be one–probably a child–who will imagine the stake necessary to kill it. But a stake is only stupid wood; the mind is the mallet which drives it home.

For a moment he felt a wild hope: perhaps this really was a nightmare. Perhaps he would awake in his own bed, bathed in sweat, shaking, maybe even crying . . . but alive. Safe. Then he pushed the thought away. Its charm was deadly, its comfort fatal.

Maybe there's a whole other universe where a square moon rises in the sky, and the stars laugh in cold voices, and some of the triangles have four sides, and some have five, and some have five raised to the fifth power of sides. In this universe there might grow roses which sing. Everything leads to everything.

Kill you all!" The clown was laughing and screaming. "Try to stop me and I'll kill you all! Drive you crazy and then kill you all! You can't stop me!

Eddie discovered one of his childhood's great truths. Grownups are the real monsters, he thought.

Seven, Richie thought. That's the magic number. There has to be seven of us. That's the way it's supposed to be.

What he saw destroyed his sanity in one clawing stroke.

stop now before i kill youa word to the wise from your friendPENNYWISE

Your hair is winter fire,January embers.My heart burns there, too.-Stephen King, IT