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He
thought
of
the
grave
markers
in
the
Pet
Sematary
,
those
rude
circles
,
spiraling
down
into
the
Mystery
,
and
then
the
coldness
came
over
him
again
.
Why
was
he
standing
here
,
trying
to
summon
up
Gage
's
face
anyway
?
He
would
be
seeing
it
soon
enough
.
The
headstone
was
here
now
;
it
read
simply
GAGE
WILLIAM
CREED
,
followed
by
the
two
dates
.
Someone
had
been
here
today
to
pay
his
or
her
respects
,
he
saw
;
there
were
fresh
flowers
.
Who
would
that
have
been
?
Missy
Dandridge
?
His
heart
beat
heavily
but
slowly
in
his
chest
.
This
was
it
then
;
if
he
was
going
to
do
it
,
he
had
better
start
.
There
was
only
so
much
night
ahead
,
and
then
the
day
would
come
.
Louis
glanced
into
his
heart
one
final
time
and
saw
that
yes
,
he
did
intend
to
go
ahead
with
this
.
He
nodded
his
head
almost
imperceptibly
and
fished
for
his
pocketknife
.
He
had
cinched
his
bundle
with
Scotch
strapping
tape
,
and
now
he
cut
it
.
He
unrolled
the
tarp
at
the
foot
of
Gage
's
grave
like
a
bedroll
and
then
arranged
items
in
exactly
the
same
way
he
would
have
arranged
instruments
to
suture
a
cut
or
to
perform
a
small
in-office
operation
.
Here
was
the
flashlight
with
its
lens
felted
as
the
hardware
store
clerk
had
suggested
.
The
felt
was
also
secured
with
strapping
tape
.
He
had
made
a
small
circle
in
the
middle
by
placing
a
penny
on
the
felt
and
cutting
around
it
with
a
scalpel
.
Here
was
the
short-handled
pick
which
he
should
not
have
to
use
--
he
had
brought
it
only
as
a
contingency
.
He
would
have
no
sealed
cap
to
deal
with
,
and
he
should
n't
run
into
any
rocks
in
a
newly
filled
grave
.
Here
was
the
shovel
,
the
spade
,
the
length
of
rope
,
the
work
gloves
.
He
put
the
gloves
on
,
grabbed
the
spade
,
and
started
.
The
ground
was
soft
,
the
digging
easy
.
The
grave
's
shape
was
well
defined
,
the
dirt
he
was
throwing
out
softer
than
the
earth
at
the
verge
.
His
mind
made
a
kind
of
automatic
comparison
between
the
ease
of
this
dig
and
the
rocky
,
unforgiving
ground
of
the
place
where
,
if
all
went
well
,
he
would
be
reburying
his
son
later
on
this
night
.
Up
there
he
would
need
the
pick
.
Then
he
tried
to
stop
thinking
altogether
.
It
only
got
in
the
way
.
He
threw
the
dirt
on
the
ground
to
the
left
of
the
grave
,
working
into
a
steady
rhythm
that
only
became
more
difficult
to
maintain
as
the
hole
deepened
.
He
stepped
into
the
grave
,
smelling
that
dank
aroma
of
fresh
dirt
,
a
smell
he
remembered
from
his
summers
with
Uncle
Carl
.
Digger
,
he
thought
and
stopped
to
wipe
sweat
from
his
brow
.
Uncle
Carl
had
told
him
that
was
the
nickname
for
every
graveyard
sexton
in
America
.
Their
friends
called
them
Digger
.
