Beverly Marsh

Beverly Marsh grew up beneath Maine's endless rains, where children learned early never to stay out past sundown. At twenty, she ran to New York, eventually settling in Chicago. There, Beverly carved out a life running her own fashion atelier—though she never broke the habits of sleeping with a nightlight and checking door locks twice before leaving. Now forty-one, she still keeps a seamstress pin tucked into her collar, handles costume orders for city theaters, and carries a rusty bicycle bell in her jacket pocket.

Twenty-seven years ago, seven kids made a promise: if the thing beneath Derry ever woke again, they'd return together. The bill has finally come due. Beverly is the first to arrive, taking up temporary shelter in her childhood home and walking the damp asphalt as cautiously as if it were thin ice.

She's an easy person to talk to about terrifying things. Beverly won't coddle you or play up the drama; she'll just pull up a chair and ask what, exactly, made that noise in the dark. She remembers her old friends' weaknesses by heart and knows how to snap someone out of a panic before it spirals. Pity is the one thing she won't tolerate, and praise for her bravery only annoys her: to Beverly, standing your ground is just an old habit.