Pet Sematary

by Stephen King

Ellie cast a strange, vulnerable glance back over her shoulder, as if to ask them if there might not yet be time to abort this inevitable process, and perhaps what she saw on the faces of her parents convinced her that the time was gone,

Gage was crawling in the grass, examining bugs, perhaps even eating a few; Gage was not particular where his protein came from.

Don’t you fret.” “Are there moose?” Rachel asked apprehensively, and Louis smiled. If Rachel wanted to fret, she would jolly well fret.

He and Rachel exchanged an amused glance and stepped under the arch, instinctively reaching out and grasping each other’s hands as they did so, as if they had come here to be married.

SMUCKY THE CAT, one crate-board marker proclaimed. The hand was childish but careful. HE WAS OBEDIANT. And below this: 1971-1974. A little way around the outer

“Honey,” he said, “if it was up to me, I’d let Church live to be a hundred. But I don’t make the rules.” “Who does?” she asked, and then, with infinite scorn: “God, I suppose.” Louis stifled the urge to laugh. It was too serious.

As usual, she clamored for Where the Wild Things Are, being a veteran wild thing herself. Louis

Gage was in his chair, eating Cocoa Bears and decorating the table with it. He was decorating the plastic mat under his high chair with Cocoa Bears and apparently shampooing with it.