(A/N):
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OUTSKIRTS OF BASTION,
ILLINOIS...
The wooden welcome board creaked slightly in the wind as the car passed beneath it.
WELCOME TO BASTION
Where Tradition Keeps Us Strong
The road narrowed as Jojo turned off the highway, tires humming softly against cracked asphalt.
On both sides stretched endless fields of corn—
Tall, dense, and heavy with grain,
Their golden-green stalks swaying in unison like a living ocean preparing for harvest.
Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Caroline turned up the radio,
An old rock song filling the car.
She tapped her fingers against the window frame,
Clearly enjoying the calm drive.
In the backseat,
Gayathri and Debbie leaned toward each other,
Whispering quietly—
Half gossip, half nerves.
Debbie laughed softly at something Gayathri said,
Though her eyes kept drifting to the fields outside.
Inadu slept, head tilted toward the window, breath slow and steady.
Jojo kept his eyes on the road.
Then—
-WEE-OOO. -WEE-OOO.
Red and blue lights flared in the rearview mirror.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Jojo eased off the accelerator,
Calmly pulling to the side of the road.
Gravel crunched under the tires.
From the cornfield itself...
A sheriff's cruiser rolled out—
Like it had been waiting.
The officer stepped out.
Middle-aged. Broad shoulders.
Weathered face.
Eyes sharp in a way that had nothing to do with law enforcement training.
His badge read:
Sheriff Jerry Ricks
He approached the driver's window slowly,
Hand resting near his holster—
Not threatening, but deliberate.
"Evening,"
He said, eyes scanning the car's interior.
"You folks aren't from around here."
Jojo rolled down the window, relaxed.
"No, sir,"
He replied evenly.
"Just tourists. Looking around Illinois. Thinking about buying property if we like the place."
Ricks studied Jojo's face longer than necessary.
"...."
Not curiosity.
Evaluation.
"You picked an odd route,"
Ricks said.
"Bastion isn't exactly a tourist town."
Jojo gave a small, polite smile.
"Quiet places grow on you."
For a moment, the wind moved through the cornfields—
"...."
"...."
"...."
And Jojo felt it.
A thick undercurrent of sin,
Buried deep beneath layers of routine, obedience, and tradition.
Not chaotic evil.
Organized cruelty.
Ricks finally straightened, nodding once.
-Nod
"Just don't cause trouble. This is a peaceful place. We like to keep it that way."
His eyes flicked briefly—
"...."
Too briefly—
Toward the fields.
Then he turned and walked back to his cruiser,
Tires crunching as the vehicle disappeared back between the rows of corn, swallowed whole.
The road was quiet again.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Caroline exhaled.
-Sigh
"That was… friendly."
Jojo didn't answer immediately.
"...."
He started the engine and pulled back onto the road.
Inadu stirred, eyes opening slowly.
She turned her head toward Jojo, studying his expression.
"…He reeks of sins, doesn't he?"
She asked softly.
Jojo nodded, jaw tightening.
-Nod
"Not just him,"
He said.
"This whole place before us is soaked in it. Layered. Old. Repeated."
Debbie hugged her arms.
"Repeated how?"
Jojo's gaze stayed forward as the first buildings of Bastion came into view—
Small houses, tidy fences, and smiling scarecrows posted near the fields.
"Like a ritual,"
He said quietly.
"One that's been performed for generations."
Gayathri swallowed.
-Gulp
"Then why does it feel so… normal?"
Jojo's lips curved into a humorless smile.
"Because everyone here believes it's necessary."
The car rolled deeper into Bastion.
And somewhere beyond the cornfields—
Something waited for the harvest to begin.
As Jojo's car rolled deeper into the settlement,
The change was immediate.
Conversations slowed.
Doors paused mid-close.
Eyes followed the vehicle longer than curiosity demanded.
"...."
New faces were rare here—
Too rare.
Teenagers leaned against fences,
Pretending not to stare while staring anyway.
Children stopped their games outright,
Watching the car as if it were an omen rather than a machine.
Even the adults—
Farmers with dirt-stained hands, women carrying baskets—
Looked unsettled, their expressions caught somewhere between suspicion and unease.
Jojo parked near the center of town and stepped out.
The air felt heavy.
Not hostile—
Expectant.
He approached an old man standing near a wooden porch, pipe in hand.
The man had the posture of someone who'd spent a lifetime bending to the land,
Shoulders stooped not by age alone but by habit.
"Excuse me,"
Jojo said politely.
"Is there an inn or hotel nearby?"
The old man blinked,
"...."
As if pulled from deep thought.
His eyes sharpened briefly, studying Jojo's face—
Measuring, weighing.
Then he shook his head.
"No hotel,"
He said.
"No inn either. Folks don't usually pass through Bastion."
There was a pause.
The man exhaled slowly.
"…But,"
He added,
"if you need a place to stay, I might be able to arrange something."
Jojo nodded, smiling lightly.
-Nod
"That would be appreciated."
As the man turned, guilt stirred in him.
And Jojo felt it.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just a quiet, rotting weight—
The kind that never leaves.
A memory surfaced uninvited in Jojo's mind.
A son.
A warning given too late.
A badge flashing red and blue in the dark.
A sheriff's voice saying "It's tradition."
And a father standing on a porch, telling himself he had done all he could—
Knowing he hadn't.
Jojo's expression didn't change.
"...."
But inside, the pieces locked into place.
'Dark Harvest.'
Letting out a silent sigh,
-Sigh
Jojo followed the man down a narrow street until they stopped before a large,
Well-kept house—
Two stories, freshly painted, porch lights glowing warmly.
It stood out too much for a town this closed.
"This is my home,"
The old man said.
"Plenty of rooms. You and your people can take whichever you need."
He hesitated, then added, almost rehearsed,
"Rent'll be three hundred dollars a night. That includes meals."
Jojo met his eyes.
"Fair,"
He said easily, pulling out the cash.
The old man accepted it—
"...."
But his hands trembled.
As they stepped inside,
Jojo glanced back at the town.
Cornfields swayed at the edges of the settlement.
Scarecrows stood too straight.
Even though Jojo and the others didn't realize it,
Their arrival sent ripples through Bastion.
By evening, whispers moved faster than the wind through the corn.
Teenagers lingered longer near the old man's house,
Pretending to pass by while sneaking glances at the windows.
Kids rode their bikes in slow circles,
Daring each other to get closer.
For them, the outside world existed only through screens—
Flat, distant, unreal.
Real people from outside?
That was different.
That was exciting.
And dangerous.
Some of the older teens exchanged looks—
Half thrill, half fear—
Already imagining stories, already wondering if the newcomers would still be here when Harvest Night came.
AT THE EDGE OF TOWN...
Two vehicles idled on a dirt road between towering cornfields.
On one side,
Sheriff Jerry Ricks leaned out of his cruiser window,
Hat tipped low.
On the other,
A black sedan sat half-hidden by the stalks,
Its driver's window rolled down just enough for conversation.
Inside sat Pastor Malcolm Hargreeve,
Hands folded calmly on the steering wheel,
Eyes fixed on the horizon where the fields met the sky.
"The harvest begins in a week,"
The pastor said quietly.
"Preparations?"
Ricks nodded.
-Nod
"Everything's on schedule. Names have been finalized. Patrols are tighter this year."
The pastor's lips thinned slightly.
"...."
"And the boys?"
"Restless,"
Ricks replied.
"They always are. But fear of tradition keeps them in line."
A pause.
"There were outsiders today,"
The pastor added.
Ricks's jaw tightened.
"...."
"Yeah. Saw them myself."
"Tourists?"
"That's what they said."
The pastor finally turned his head,
Looking directly at the sheriff.
"And what do you think?"
Ricks glanced toward the town—
Toward the old man's house where lights now glowed warmly.
"I think they don't belong here,"
He said.
"And things tend to go wrong when outsiders see what they're not meant to."
The cornfields rustled, whispering around them.
The pastor reached up and adjusted the small wooden symbol hanging from his rearview mirror,
Not a cross, but something older.
Simpler.
"The ritual cannot be disrupted,"
He said calmly.
"Not this year. Not ever."
Ricks nodded slowly.
-Nod
"Then we keep an eye on them."
"And if they get curious?"
The sheriff's voice was flat.
"Then we make sure curiosity doesn't spread."
The pastor smiled faintly.
"Good,"
He said.
"For the good of Bastion."
Both engines rumbled to life.
As the cars pulled away in opposite directions,
The corn bent and swayed—
Listening, waiting—
Counting down the days until the harvest began.
Meanwhile some teens...
TEENS POV...
We weren't supposed to talk about them.
That was the rule.
But rules always got quieter when adults weren't around.
We sat on the bleachers near the old football field,
The kind no one used anymore.
The cornfields pressed close on all sides,
Tall enough to block the wind and most of the sky.
The lights flickered on overhead,
Buzzing like they were tired too.
"There's five of them,"
Tommy whispered.
"Maybe more."
I kept my voice low.
"I saw the guy with the black jacket. Didn't even look scared when Officer Ricks pulled them over."
That got a reaction.
"Yeah,"
Eli muttered.
"That's what's wrong."
We all knew the feeling.
You didn't grow up in Bastion without learning it.
Fear wasn't loud here.
It was expected.
"They're staying at Wilkins' place,"
Someone said.
"My cousin swears it."
That made us go quiet.
Mr. Wilkins' house was… important.
Not officially.
Just the kind of place adults chose when things needed to be handled.
"What if they don't leave before Harvest Night?"
Tommy asked.
Nobody answered right away.
We didn't like saying it out loud.
Harvest Night wasn't a festival—
It was a hunt where teens needs to prove them selves.
"They don't know,"
Eli said finally.
"About the rules."
"They'll know soon enough,"
I replied.
The corn rustled suddenly, louder than before.
We all turned at once.
Nothing there.
Just fields and shadows.
"I heard Sheriff Ricks talking to my father today,"
Tommy whispered.
"They're already picking routes. Masks too."
My stomach tightened.
"Then it's really happening this year,"
Someone said.
Silence fell again.
A bike bell rang somewhere down the road, sharp and sudden.
We flinched like idiots.
"Do you think…"
Eli hesitated, then forced it out,
"…do you think the outsiders could help us?"
I laughed, but it came out wrong.
-Haha
"Nobody stops it."
That was another rule.
We stood up, one by one, like we always did—
No one wanting to be the last alone when the sun went down.
As we walked home,
I looked toward Wilkins' house, lights glowing warm against the dark.
For a second, I almost hoped the outsiders didn't understand.
Because if they did—
Harvest Night was about to get messy.
"...."
Darex swallowed hard.
-Gulp
The porch light buzzed faintly above him,
Insects flickering in and out of its glow.
Behind him, the other boys hovered at the edge of the yard—
Close enough to dare, far enough to run.
"Just knock,"
Someone whispered.
"Once."
Darex raised his hand.
Knock. Knock.
The sound felt too loud in the still air.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the door creaked open.
The old man—
Wilkins—
"...."
Stood there, pipe in hand, eyes sharp despite his age.
He didn't look surprised.
If anything, he looked… tired.
"What do you boys want?"
He asked calmly.
That was enough.
"...."
"...."
"...."
The teens scattered instantly—
Feet pounding gravel,
Laughter breaking into panic as they ran like they'd seen a ghost.
Wilkins watched them go, expression unreadable.
"...."
He closed the door slowly.
INSIDE – KITCHEN...
Debbie had just come downstairs, kettle in hand,
When she saw it through the window—
The way the boys fled, the way the old man stood perfectly still afterward.
Something about it tightened her chest.
'They weren't just curious,'
She realized.
'They were afraid.'
She poured the hot water,
Hands steady despite the unease crawling up her spine.
The house felt different now—
Less like shelter, more like a stage.
She set the mug down untouched.
"I should tell him,"
She muttered.
JOJO'S ROOM...
Jojo looked up as Debbie knocked and stepped inside.
Her face said enough before she spoke.
"Some kids came by,"
She said quietly.
"Teenagers. One of them knocked on the door. The moment Mr. Wilkins opened it… they ran. Like they weren't expecting an answer."
Jojo's eyes narrowed—
"...."
Not in alarm, but interest.
"Did they look scared,"
He asked,
"or curious?"
Debbie hesitated.
"...."
"Both. But mostly scared."
Jojo nodded once.
-Nod
"That means they're close,"
He said.
"Close to what?"
Debbie asked.
Jojo stood, pulling on his jacket.
"To the truth,"
He replied.
"Or to becoming part of it."
He paused, glancing toward the window where dusk had fully settled over Bastion.
"I'm going for a walk."
Debbie frowned.
-Frown
"Alone?"
Jojo smiled faintly.
"That's usually when people talk the most."
He stepped past her and headed downstairs, the floorboards creaking softly beneath his boots.
Jojo stepped off the porch and let the door close behind him with a soft click.
The town had settled into evening—
Streetlights humming to life, windows glowing faintly,
The smell of fried oil and grain drifting through the air.
Bastion pretended to be ordinary best at this hour.
He walked down the street to the small burger parlor near the square—
The kind with faded posters and cracked vinyl booths.
The bell above the door jingled as he entered.
"Evenin',"
The waiter said, eyeing him openly.
Outsiders were still news.
Jojo ordered a burger for himself and several packed meals to go.
When the waiter slid the tray across the counter,
He leaned in slightly.
"You folks passing through?"
The man asked, curiosity thinly veiled.
Jojo smiled easily.
"Just visiting."
"From where?"
"U.S."
The waiter blinked, unsure whether he'd misheard or been mocked.
"...."
By the time he processed it, Jojo was already turning away, bag in hand.
Outside, the air felt cooler.
Jojo took two steps—
-thup.
Something bounced off the side of his head.
He stopped, slowly bent down, and picked up a crumpled paper ball from the pavement.
Unfolding it, he found hurried, uneven handwriting—
Clearly written by someone shaking.
'WE NEED TO TALK
MEET US AT THE ARCADE CENTER'
No names.
No time.
Jojo's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"So,"
He murmured, folding the paper neatly and slipping it into his pocket,
"you finally decided to break a rule."
He glanced down the street.
Across the way, the old arcade building sat half-lit, its neon sign flickering—
BASTION FUN ZONE—
Letters buzzing like a dying insect.
No laughter.
No music.
Just shadows moving behind dusty glass.
Jojo adjusted the bag in his hand and started walking toward it, unhurried.
The arcade doors swung open with a loud clang, neon lights spilling out into the street.
Jojo stepped inside—
And for a moment, it almost felt normal.
Games blared from every corner.
Pinball machines rattled.
Old cabinets flickered with pixelated explosions and electronic music.
Teenagers crowded around screens, shouting, laughing, shoving each other in excitement.
Too much excitement.
The kind that tried very hard not to look nervous.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Jojo moved calmly through the noise and stopped in front of an old Pac-Man machine,
Its screen slightly dimmer than the others.
He slipped a coin into the slot.
Clink.
The familiar chime rang out.
He began to play—
Slow, deliberate movements—
Eyes on the screen, ears on everything else.
Behind him, voices overlapped.
"Just a week left,"
One boy said, barely containing his grin.
-Grin
"This year it's gonna be different. We'll kill the monster for sure."
"Golden ticket's mine,"
Another bragged.
"Soon as it's over, I'm gone. College. Real life."
A third voice spat on the floor.
"Yeah? Like hell. Every year someone says that."
Laughter followed.
-Haha
Then the tone shifted.
"Damn Texans,"
Someone muttered.
Jojo's fingers paused briefly on the joystick.
"They don't belong here,"
The same boy continued, bitterness sharp in his voice.
"Always thinking they can just take whatever they want. My brother lost everything because of one of them. Money. Honor. Family name."
A chair scraped back aggressively.
"Doesn't matter,"
Another teen said quickly, trying to sound casual.
"Harvest fixes everything."
Jojo cleared a corner of ghosts and kept playing.
Nearby, a named Richie Shepard boy stood at a racing game, completely focused,
Aware of the tension bleeding into the room.
Dark hair, thin frame, headphones slung around his neck.
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(Author's POV)
(A/N): Hey Guys Is Any Body saw IT welcome to Derry.
So Pennywise is going to return in our fic. Soon...
Thanks for reading the chapter!
Please give a review and power stone!!!