By Stephen King
The home appeared correct, felt correct to Dr Louis Creed.
Rambling, outdated, unsmart and comfy. a spot the place the relations might settle; the kids develop and play and discover. The rolling hills and meadows of Maine appeared an international clear of the fume-choked risks of Chicago.
Only the occasional large truck out at the two-lane street, grinding up throughout the gears, hammering down the lengthy gradients, growled out an intrusive threat.
But in the back of the home and much clear of the line: that was once secure. only a rigorously cleared course up into the woods the place generations of neighborhood young children have processed with the solemn innocence of the younger, taking with them their expensive departed pets for burial.
A unhappy position might be, yet secure. definitely a secure position. now not a spot to seep into your goals, to wake you, sweating with worry and foreboding.
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Extra info for Pet Sematary
I’m allergic to bees, but who keeps eyeball bees? Eyekeepers? “Human,” Eye says, “this is a stabilizer. ” 63 CAMERON PIERCE A needle pricks my neck in the same vein that the tentacle-eye latched onto. I yelp. My eyes shoot open. Hari strokes my head to soothe me but I cannot be soothed. Ira sobs, crying so hard for help because her legs are missing. I open my mouth but realize that saying Hey, where’d your legs go? would be laughably inadequate. I strain to check the status of my own legs but the strap pins my neck to the table.
Ira flails against the straps, putting on a real good Joan of Arc act as Wayne yells out a prayer. “Aaiwass! Thelema! ” he says, and then something about God being in his heart. Eye turns around holding four foot-long sandwiches in his arms. They seem to be no different than normal sub sandwiches except for the dripping green glop and the single elongated eyeball dangling tentacle-like from each of them. Eye sets a sandwich on Donkey’s chest. The tentacle-eye immediately sets to work. It clamps onto the crusted flesh stump where Donkey’s head should be and pumps the green goop down its tube-shaped body and into Donkey’s corpse.
Ira cuts a door in the gray, semi-translucent trunk with her Jerry. It’s all fishy and I’ve got to clamp my mouth shut to prevent vomit from shoveling out. As we crawl into the tree, new flesh immediately seals the doorway behind us. The stuffy air tastes saltier and the fishiness disappears. Gravity vanishes and we float up, up, up into the skull of the Tree of Knowledge. Being inside the tree’s skull reminds me of a black and white movie, or how it might feel to live inside a black and white movie.