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There
were
footsteps
across
the
kitchen
,
and
Rachel
looked
in
,
startled
.
Ellie
was
now
weeping
against
Louis
's
chest
.
The
horror
had
been
articulated
;
it
was
out
;
its
face
had
been
drawn
and
could
be
regarded
.
Now
,
even
if
it
could
not
be
changed
,
it
could
at
least
be
wept
over
.
"
Ellie
,
"
he
said
,
rocking
her
,
"
Ellie
,
Ellie
,
Church
is
n't
dead
;
he
's
right
over
there
,
sleeping
.
"
"
But
he
could
be
,
"
she
wept
.
"
He
could
be
,
any
time
.
"
He
held
her
and
rocked
her
,
believing
,
rightly
or
wrongly
,
that
Ellie
wept
for
the
very
intractability
of
death
,
its
imperviousness
to
argument
or
to
a
little
girl
's
tears
;
that
she
wept
over
its
cruel
unpredictability
;
and
that
she
wept
because
of
the
human
being
's
wonderful
,
deadly
ability
to
translate
symbols
into
conclusions
that
were
either
fine
and
noble
or
blackly
terrifying
.
If
all
those
animals
had
died
and
been
buried
,
then
Church
could
die
(
any
time
!
)
and
be
buried
;
and
if
that
could
happen
to
Church
,
it
could
happen
to
her
mother
,
her
father
,
her
baby
brother
.
To
herself
.
Death
was
a
vague
idea
;
the
Pet
Sematary
was
real
.
In
the
texture
of
those
rude
markers
were
truths
which
even
a
child
's
hands
could
feel
.
It
would
be
easy
to
lie
at
this
point
,
the
way
he
had
lied
earlier
about
the
life
expectancy
of
tomcats
.
But
a
lie
would
be
remembered
later
and
perhaps
finally
totted
up
on
the
report
card
all
children
hand
in
to
themselves
on
their
parents
.
His
own
mother
had
told
him
such
a
lie
,
an
innocuous
one
about
women
finding
babies
in
the
dewy
grass
when
they
really
wanted
them
,
and
as
innocuous
as
the
lie
had
been
,
Louis
had
never
forgiven
his
mother
for
telling
it
--
or
himself
for
believing
it
.
"
Honey
,
"
he
said
,
"
it
happens
.
It
's
a
part
of
life
.
"
"
It
's
a
bad
part
!
"
she
cried
.
"
It
's
a
really
bad
part
!
"
