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Rachel lowered her head and began to cry。
57
Louis stumbled over something and fell full…length on the ground。 For a moment he didn't think he would be able to get up
…getting up was far beyond him…he would simply lie here； listening to the chorus of peepers from Little God Swamp somewhere behind him and feeling the chorus of aches and pains inside his own body。 He would lie here until he went to sleep。 Or died。 Probably the latter。
He could remember slipping the canvas bundle into the hole he had dug； and pushing most of the earth back into the hole with his bare hands。 And he believed he could remember piling the rocks up； building from a broad base to a point。
From then to now he remembered very little。 He had obviously gotten back down the steps again or he wouldn't be here； which was 。 。 。 where？ Looking around； he thought he recognized one of the groves of great old pines not far beyond the deadfall。 Could he have made it all the way back through Little God Swamp without knowing it？ He supposed it was possible。 Just。
This is far enough。 I'll just sleep here。
But it was that thought； so falsely forting； that got him to his feet and moving again。 Because if he stayed here； that thing might find him。 。 。 that thing might be in the woods and looking for him right this moment。
He scrubbed his hand up to his face； palm first； and was stupidly surprised to see blood on his hand。 。 。 at some point he'd given himself a nosebleed。 〃Who gives a fuck？〃 he muttered hoarsely and grubbed apathetically around him until he had found the pick and shovel again。
Ten minutes later the deadfall loomed ahead。 Louis climbed it； stumbling repeatedly but somehow not falling until he was almost down。 Then he glanced at his feet； a branch promptly snapped （don't look down； Jud had said）； another branch tumbled； spilling his foot outward； and he fell with a thud on his side； the wind knocked out of him。
I'll be goddamned if this isn't the second graveyard I've fallen into tonight。 。 。 and I'll be goddamned if two isn't enough。
He began to feel around for the pick and shovel again； and laid his hands on them at last。 For a moment he surveyed his surroundings； visible by starlight。 Nearby was the grave of SMUCKY。 He was obediant； Louis thought wearily。 And TRIXIE； KILT ON THE HIGHWAY。 The wind still blew strongly； and he could hear the faint ting…ting…ting of a piece of metal…perhaps it had once been a Del Monte can； cut laboriously by a grieving pet owner with his father's tinsnips and then flattened out with a hammer and nailed to a stick…and that brought the fear back again。 He was too tired now to feel it as more than a somehow sickening pulsebeat。 He had done it。 That steady ting…ting…ting sound ing out of the darkness brought it home to him more than anything else。
He walked through the Pet Sematary； past the grave of MARTA OUR PET RABIT who had DYED MARCH 1 1965； and near the barrow of GEN。 PATTON； he stepped over the ragged chunk of board that marked the final resting place of POLYNESIA。 The tick of metal was louder now； and he paused； looking down。 Here atop a slightly leaning board that had been driven into the ground； was a tin rectangle； and by starlight Louis read； RINGO OUR HAMSTER； 1964…1965。 It was this piece of tin that was ticking repeatedly off the boards of the Pet Sematary's entry arch。 Louis reached down to bend the piece of tin back 。 。 。 and then froze； scalp crawling。
Something was moving back there。 Something was moving on the other side of the deadfall。
What he heard was a stealthy kind of sound…the furtive crackle of pine needles； the dry pop of a twig； the rattle of underbrush。 They were almost lost under the sough of the wind through the pines。
〃Gage？〃 Louis called hoarsely。
The very realization of what he was doing…standing here in the dark and calling his dead son…pulled his scalp stiff and brought his hair up on end。 He began to shudder helplessly and steadily； as if with a sick and killing fever。
〃Gage？〃
The sounds had died away。
Not yet； it's too early。 Don't ask me how I know； but I do。 That isn't Gage over there。 That's。 。 。 something else。
He suddenly thought of Ellie telling him； He called 〃Lazarus； e forth〃 。 。 。 because if He hadn't called for Lazarus by name； everyone in that graveyard would have risen。
On the other side of the deadfall； those sounds had begun again。 On the other side of the barrier。 Almost…but not quite… hidden under the wind。 As if something blind were stalking him with ancient instincts。 His dreadfully overstimulated brain conjured horrible； sickening pictures： a giant mole； a great bat that flopped through the underbrush rather than flying。
Louis backed out of the Pet Sematary； not turning his back to the deadfall…that ghostlike glimmer； a livid scar on the dark…until he was well down the path。 Then he began to hurry； and perhaps a quarter of a mile before the path ran out of the woods and into the field behind his house； he found enough left inside him to run。
Louis slung the pick and shovel indifferently inside the garage and stood for a moment at the head of his driveway； looking first back the way he had e and then up at the sky。 It was quarter past four in the morning； and he supposed dawn could not be so far away。 Light would already be three quarters of the way across the Atlantic； but for now； here in Ludlow； the night held hard。 The wind blew steadily。
He went into the house； feeling his way along the side of the garage and unlocking the back door。 He went through the kitchen without turning on a light and stepped into the small bathroom between the kitchen and the dining room。 Here he did snap on a light； and the first thing he saw was Church； curled up on top of the toilet tank； staring at him with those muddy yellow…green eyes。
〃Church；〃 he said。 〃I thought someone put you out。〃
Church only looked at him from atop the toilet tank。 Yes； someone had put Church out； he had done it himself。 He remembered that very clearly。 Just as he remembered replacing the window pane down…cellar that time and then telling himself that that had taken care of the problem。 But exactly whom had he been kidding？ When Church wanted to get in； church got in。 Because Church was different now。
It didn't matter。 In this dull； exhausted aftermath； nothing seemed to matter。 He felt like something less than human now； one of George Romero's stupid； lurching movie…zombies； or maybe someone who had escaped from T。 S。 Eliot's poem about the hollow men。 I should have been a pair of ragged claws； scuttling through Little God Swamp and up to the Micmac burying ground； he thought and uttered a dry chuckle。
〃Headpiece full of straw； Church；〃 he said in his croaking voice。 He was unbuttoning his shirt now。 〃That's me。 You better believe it。〃
There was a nice bruise ing on his left side； about halfway up his ribcage； and when he shucked his pants he saw that the knee he had banged on the gravestone was swelling up like a balloon。 It had already turned a rotten purple…black； and he supposed that as soon as he stopped flexing it； the joint would bee stiff and painfully obdurate…