Pet Sematary

by Stephen King

It had not been a heart attack. It had been a cerebral accident, sudden and probably painless. When Louis called Steve Masterton that afternoon and told him what was going on, Steve said that he wouldn’t mind going out just that way. “Sometimes God dillies and dallies,” Steve said, “and sometimes He just points at you and tells you to hang up your jock.” Rachel did not want to talk about it at all and would not allow Louis to talk to her of it. Ellie was not so much upset as she was surprised and interested—it was what Louis thought a thoroughly healthy six-year-old reaction should be. She wanted to know if Mrs. Crandall had died with her eyes open or shut. Louis said he didn’t know. Jud took hold as well as could have been expected, considering the fact that the lady had been sharing bed and board with him for almost sixty years. Louis found the old man—and on this day he looked very much like an old man of eighty-three—sitting alone at the kitchen table, smoking a Chesterfield, drinking a bottle of beer, and staring blankly into the living room.