Pet Sematary

   The house looked right, felt right to Dr Louis Creed.

 Rambling, old, unsmart and comfortable. A place where the family could settle; grow the children and play and explore. The rolling hills and meadows of Maine seemed a world away from the fume-choked dangers of Chicago.

 Only the occasional big truck out on the two-lane highway, grinding up through the gears, hammering down the long gradients, growled out an intrusive threat.

 But behind the house and far away from the road: that was safe. Just a carefully cleared path up into the woods where generations of local children have processed with the solemn innocence of the young, taking with them their dear departed for pets burial.

 A sad place maybe, but safe. Surely a safe place. Not a place to seep into your dreams, to wake you, sweating with fear and foreboding.