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By the time Louis had finished three beers； he felt that he had some sort of equilibrium for the first time that day。 By the time he had gotten through the first six…pack； he felt that sleep might actually be possible in another hour or so。 He came back from the fridge with his eighth or ninth （he had really lost count by then and was walking on a slant）； and his eyes fell on Church； the cat was dozing…or pretending to…on the rug now。 The thought came so naturally that it surely must have been there all along； simply waiting its time to e forward from the back of his mind：
When are you going to do it？ When are you going to bury Gage in the annex to the Pet Sematary？
And on the heels of that：
Lazarus； e forth。
Ellie's sleepy； dazed voice：
The teacher said if he'd just said 〃e forth；〃 probably everybody in that graveyard would have e out。
A chill of such elemental force struck him that Louis clutched himself as the shudder twisted through his body。 He suddenly found himself remembering Ellie's first day of school； how Gage had gone to sleep on his lap while he and Rachel were listening to Ellie prattle on about 〃Old MacDonald〃 and Mrs。 Berryman； he had said Just let me put the baby to bed； and when he took Gage upstairs a horrible premonition had struck him； and now he understood： Back in September part of him had known Gage was going to die soon。 Part of him had known that Oz the Gweat and Tewwible was at hand。 It was nonsense； it was rot； it was superstitious bullshit of the purest ray serene 。 。 。 and it was true。 He had known。 Louis spilled some of his beer on his shirt； and Church looked up wearily to see if this was a signal that the evening's cat…kicking festivities were about to mence。
Louis suddenly remembered the question he had asked Jud； he remembered the way Jud's arm had jerked； knocking two empty beer bottles off the table。 One of them had shattered。 You don't even want to talk about such things； Louis！
But he did want to talk about them…or at least think about them。 The Pet Sematary。 What was beyond the Pet Sematary。 The idea had a deadly attraction。 It made a balance of logic which was impossible to deny。 Church had been killed in the road； Gage had been killed in the road。 Here was Church… changed of course； distasteful in some ways…but here。 Ellie； Gage； and Rachel all had a working relationship with him。 He killed birds； true； and had turned a few mice inside out； but killing small animals was a cat thing to do。 Church had by no means turned into Frankencat。 He was； in many ways； as good as ever。
You're rationalizing； a voice whispered。 He's not as good as ever。 He's spooky。 The crow； Louis。 。 。 remember the crow？
〃Good God；〃 Louis said aloud in a shaky； distracted voice he was barely able to recognize as his own。
God； oh yes； fine； sure。 If there had ever been a time to invoke the name of God outside of a novel about ghosts or vampires； this was it。 So just what…what in the name of God…was he thinking about？ He was thinking about a dark blasphemy which he was even now not wholly able to credit。 Worse； he was telling himself lies。 Not just rationalizing； but outright lying。
So what's the truth？ You want the truth so fucking bad； what's the truth？
That Church wasn't really a cat anymore at all…start with that。 He looked like a cat； and he acted like a cat； but he was really only a poor imitation。 People couldn't actually see through that imitation； but they could feel through it。 He remembered a night when Chariton had been at the house。 The occasion had been a small pre…Christmas dinner party。 They'd been sitting in here； talking after the meal； and Church had jumped up in her lap。 Chariton had pushed the cat off immediately； a quick and instinctive moue of distaste puckering her mouth。
It had been no big deal。 No one had even mented on it。 But 。 。 。 it was there。 Chariton had felt what the cat wasn't。 Louis killed his beer and went back for another。 If Gage came back changed in such a way； that would be an obscenity。
He popped the top and drank deeply。 He was drunk now； drunk for fair； and there would be a big head for him to deal with tomorrow。 How I Went to My Son's Funeral with a Han gover by Louis Creed； author of How I Just Missed Him at the Crucial Moment and numerous other works。
Drunk。 Sure。 And he suspected now that the reason he had gotten drunk was so he could consider this crazy idea soberly。
In spite of everything； the idea had that deadly attraction； that sick luster； that glamour。 Yes； that above all else…it had glamour。
Jud was back； speaking in his mind：
You do it because it gets hold of you。 You do it because that burial place is a secret place； and you want to share the secret you make up reasons。 。 。 they seem like good reasons but mostly you do it because you want to。 Or because you have to。
Jud's voice； low and drawling with Yankee intonation； Jud's voice chilling his flesh； bringing out the goosebumps； making the hackles on the back of his neck rise。
These are secret things； Louis 。 。 。 the soil of a man's heart is stonier。 。 。 like the soil up in the old Micmac burying ground。 A man grows what he can。 。 。 and he tends it。
Louis began to go over the other things Jud had told him about the Micmac burying ground。 He began to collate the data； to sort through it； to press it…he proceeded in exactly the same way he had once readied himself for big exams。
The dog。 Spot。
I could see all the places where the barbed wire had hooked him…there was no fur in any of those places； and the flesh looked dimpled in。
The bull。 Another file turned over in Louis's mind。
Lester Morgan buried his prize hull up there。 Black Angus bull； named Hanratty 。 。 。 Lester dragged him all the way up there on a sledge 。 。 。 shot him dead two weeks later。 That bull turned mean； really mean。 But he's the only animal I ever heard of that did。
He turned mean。
The soil of a man's heart is stonier。
He turned really mean。
He's the only animal I ever heard of that did。
Mostly you do it because once you've been up there； it's your place。
The flesh looked dimpled in。
Hanratty； ain't that a silly name for a bull？
A man grows what he can。 。 。 and tends it。
They're my rats。 And my birds。 I bought the fuckers。
It's your place； a secret place； and it belongs to you； and you belong to it。
He turned mean； but he's the only animal I ever heard of that did。
What do you want to buy next； Louis； when the wind blows hard at night and the moon lays a white path through the woods to that place？ Want to climb those stairs again？ When they're watching a horror movie； everyone in the audience knows the hero or the heroine is stupid to go up those stairs； but in real life they always do…they smoke； they don't wear seat belts； they move their family in beside a busy highway where the big rigs drone back and forth all day and all night。 So； Louis； what do you say？ Want to climb the stairs？ Would you like to keep your dead son or go for what's behind Door Number One； Door Number Two； or Door Number Three？
Hey…ho； let's go。
Turned mean。 。 。 only animal。 。 。 the flesh looked。 。 。 a man yours。 。 。 his。 。
Louis dumped the rest of the beer down the sink； feeling suddenly that he was going to vomit。 The room was moving around in great swinging motions。
There was a knock at the door。
For a long time…it seemed like a long time； anyway…he believed it was only in his head； a hallucination。 But the knocking just went on and on； patient； implacable。 And suddenly Louis found himself thinking of the story of the monkey's paw； and a cold terror slipped into him。 He seemed to feel it with total physical reality…it was like a dead hand that had been kept in a refrigerator； a dead hand which had suddenly taken on its own disembodied life and slipped inside his shirt to clutch the flesh over his heart。 It was a silly image； fulsome and silly； but oh； it didn't feel silly。 No。
Louis went to the door on feet he could not feel and lifted the latch with nerveless fingers。 And as he swung it open； he thought： It'll be Pascow。 Like they said about Jim Morrison； back from the dead and bigger than ever。 Pascow standing there in his jogging shorts； big as life and as mouldy as month…old bread； Pascow with his horribly ruined head； Pascow bringing the warning again： Don't go up there。 What was that old song by the Animals？ Baby please don't go； baby PLEASE don't go； you know I love you so； baby please don't go。
The door swung open and standing there on his front step in the blowing dark of this midnight； between the day of the funeral parlor visitation and the day of his son's burial； was Jud Crandall。 His thin white hair blew randomly in the chilly dark。
Louis tried to laugh。 Time seemed to have turned cleverly back on itself。 It was Thanksgiving again。 Soon they would put the stiff； unnaturally thickened body of Ellie's cat Winston Churchill into a plastic garbage bag and start off。 Oh； do not ask what is it； let us go and make our visit。
〃Can I e in； Louis？〃 Jud asked。 He took a pack of Chesterfields from his shirt pocket and poked one into his mouth。