But he did follow. Pascow’s jogging shorts glimmered.
They crossed the living room, dining room, kitchen. Louis expected Pascow to turn the lock and then lift the latch on the door which connected the kitchen to the shed where he garaged the
station wagon and the Civic, but Pascow did no such thing. Instead of opening the door, he simply passed through it. And Louis, watching, thought with mild amazement: Is that how it’s done?
Remarkable! Anyone could do that!
He tried it himself—and was a little amused to meet only unyielding wood. Apparently he was a hard-headed realist, even in his dreams. Louis twisted the knob on the Yale lock, lifted the latch, and let himself into the shed-garage. Pascow was not there.
Louis wondered briefly if Pascow had just ceased to exist. Figures in dreams often did just that. So did locations—first you were standing nude by a swimming pool with a raging hardon, discussing the possibilities of wife swapping with, say, Roger and Missy Dandridge; then you blinked and you were climbing the side of a Hawaiian volcano. Maybe he had lost Pascow because this was the beginning of Act II.
But when Louis emerged from the garage, he saw him again, standing in the faint moonlight at the back of the lawn—at the head of the path.
Now fear came, entering softly, sifting through the hollow places of his body and filling them up with dirty smoke. He didn’t want to go up there. He halted.
Pascow glanced back over his shoulder, and in the moonlight his eyes were silver. Louis felt a hopeless crawl of horror in his belly.
That jutting bone, those dried clots of blood. But it was hopeless to resist those eyes. This was apparently a dream about being hypnotized, being dominated. . . being unable to change things, perhaps, the way he had been unable to change the fact of Pascow’s death. You could go to school for twenty years and you still couldn’t do a thing when they brought a guy in who had been rammed into a tree hard enough to open a window in his skull.
They might as well have called a plumber, a rainmaker, or the Man from Glad.
And even as these thoughts passed through his mind, he was drawn forward onto the path. He followed the jogging shorts, as maroon in this light as the dried blood on Pascow’s face.
He didn’t like this dream. Oh God, not at all. It was too real. The cold nubbles in the rug, the way he had not been able to pass through the shed door when a person could (or should) be able to walk through doors and walls in any self-respecting dream . . . and now the cool brush of dew on his bare feet, and the feel of the night wind, just a breath of it, on his body, which was naked except for his Jockey shorts. Once under the trees, pine needles stuck to the soles of his feet. . . another little detail that was just a bit more real than it needed to be.
Never mind. Never mind. I am home in my own bed. It’s just a dream, no matter how vivid, and like all other dreams, it will seem ridiculous in the morning. My waking mind will discover its inconsistencies.
The small branch of a dead tree poked his bicep rudely and he winced. Up ahead, Pascow was only a moving shadow, and now Louis’s terror seemed to have crystallized into a bright sculpture in his mind: I am following a dead man into the woods, I am following a dead man up to the Pet Sematary, and this is no dream.
God help me, this is no dream. This is happening.
They walked down the far side of the wooded hill. The path curved in lazy S-shapes between the trees and then plunged into the underbrush. No boots now. The ground dissolved into cold jelly under his feet, grabbing and holding, letting go only reluctantly.
There were ugly sucking noises. He could feel the mud oozing between his toes, trying to separate them.
He tried desperately to hold on to the dream idea.
It wouldn’t wash.
They reached the clearing, and the moon sailed free of its reef of clouds again, bathing the graveyard with ghastly effulgence. The leaning markers—bits of board and tin cans that had been cut with a father’s tinsnips and then hammered into rude squares, chipped chunks of shale and slate—stood out with three-dimensional clarity, casting shadows perfectly black and defined.
Pascow stopped near SMUCKY THE CAT, HE WAS
OBEDIANT and turned back toward Louis. The horror, the terror—he felt these things would grow in him until his body blew apart under their soft yet implacable pressure. Pascow was grinning. His bloody lips were wrinkled back from his teeth, and his healthy road-crew
tan in the moon’s bony light had become overlaid with the white of a corpse about to be sewn into its winding shroud.
He lifted one arm and pointed. Louis looked in that direction and moaned. His eyes grew wide, and he crammed his knuckles against his mouth. There was coolness on his cheeks, and he realized that in the extremity of his terror he had begun to weep.
The deadfall from which Jud Crandall had called Ellie in alarm had become a heap of bones. The bones were moving. They writhed and clicked together, mandibles and femurs and ulnas and molars and incisors; he saw the grinning skulls of humans and animals.
Fingerbones clittered. Here the remains of a foot flexed its pallid joints.
Ah, it was moving; it was creeping— Pascow was walking toward him now, his bloody face grim in
the moonlight, and the last of Louis’s coherent mind began to slip away in a yammering, cyclic thought: You got to scream yourself awake doesn’t matter if you scare Rachel Ellie Gage wake the whole household the whole neighborhood got to scream yourself
awake screamscreamscreamyourselfawakeawakeawake— But only a thin whisper of air would come. It was the sound of a little kid sitting on a stoop somewhere and trying to teach himself to whistle.
Pascow came closer and then spoke.
“The door must not be opened,” Pascow said. He was looking down at Louis because Louis had fallen to his knees. There was a look on his face which Louis at first mistook for compassion. It wasn’t really compassion at all; only a dreadful kind of patience.
Still he pointed at the moving pile of bones. “Don’t go beyond, no matter how much you feel you need to, Doctor. The barrier was not made to be broken. Remember this: there is more power here than you know. It is old and always restless. Remember.”
Louis tried again to scream. He could not.
“I come as a friend,” Pascow said—but was friend actually the word Pascow had used? Louis thought not. It was as if Pascow had spoken in a foreign language which Louis could understand through some dream magic . . . and “friend” was as close to whatever word Pascow had actually used that Louis’s struggling mind could come. “Your destruction and the destruction of all you love is very near, Doctor.” He was close enough for Louis to be able to smell death on him.
Pascow, reaching for him.
The soft, maddening click of the bones.
Louis began to overbalance in his effort to get away from that hand. His own hand struck a monument and tilted it into the earth.
Pascow’s face, leaning down, filled the sky.
“Doctor—remember.”
Louis tried to scream, and the world whirled away—but still he heard the click of moving bones in the moonlit crypt of the night.
17
It takes the average human seven minutes to go to sleep, but according to Hand’s Human Physiology, it takes the same average human fifteen to twenty minutes to wake up. It is as if sleep is a pool from which emerging is more difficult than entering. When the sleeper wakes, he or she comes up by degrees, from deep sleep to light sleep to what is sometimes called “waking sleep,” a state in which the sleeper can hear sounds and will even respond to questions without being aware of it later. . . except perhaps as fragments of dream.
Louis heard the click and rattle of bones, but gradually this sound became sharper, more metallic. There was a bang. A yell. More metallic sounds . . . something rolling? Sure, his drifting mind agreed. Roll dem bones.
He heard his daughter calling “Get it, Cage! Go get it!”
This was followed by Gage’s crow of delight, the sound to which Louis opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of his own bedroom.
He held himself perfectly still, waiting for the reality, the good reality, the blessed reality, to come home all the way.
All a dream. No matter how terrible, how real, it had all been dream. Only a fossil in the mind under his mind.