Why Pet Sematary Really Scares Me

While visiting family, IP swung by a used bookstore and picked up a few reads. Most notably, he picked up Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. The copy that he lent me about five years ago is at my parents’ house, in my older brother’s former bedroom. Seeing the new copy, I exclaimed, “Honey, Pet Sematary!?” And then I involuntarily shuddered. It’s the book by King that has freaked me out the most, that actually caused nightmares, that actually had me sleep with the light on for a few nights. But it wasn’t because of the revenant animals, the Wendigo, Victor Pascow. It was because of the long highway, the speeding trucks, and the death of a toddler. That’s what got me.

The part of Pet Sematary that still scares me deeply was the section in which Gage Creed dies (yes, spoilers). If I remember correctly, it happens after a section in which it seems everything will be well—sure, Church the cat  is creepy (snark alert: what cat isn’t?) and Louis Creed is having weird thoughts, but the family seems happy. Then we’re plunged into a chapter in which Gage is growing up after nearly being hit by a semi-truck; becomes a champion swimmer, is in even in the Olympics, and will still accomplish much more in his young life. And then you’re smacked with the reality—Louis wasn’t able to snatch Gage’s jacket in time and the semi-truck did hit him. What Louis was able to pick up, I remember vividly, was a baby cap full of blood. I remember putting the book down then, unable to continue, horrified. Partly it was because that King had so excellently characterized Gage, insomuch as one can characterize a babbling toddler; I could see him, I could hear him, and he was damn cute and full of life and I could picture him growing up to become an Olympic medalist. And then he was gone, his fate to be the vehicle for the evil of the Micmac burial ground about to happen.

The horror in Pet Sematary for me isn’t what’s past the deadfall, or what comes back from past the deadfall; it’s in the idea of death and, specifically, the death of a child. I’ve mentioned numerous times in this blog that IP and I are undecided about children, but I’ve never gone into why I’m undecided. Part of it is selfishness—do I have the energy to devote to a kid? Part of it is worry and insecurity—can I trust this world at all, what will society do to our kid, and how can we be good parents without over- or under-doing it? And finally, for me, part of it is real fear—what if I lose that child somehow? How would I ever cope with the ensuing grief? How would IP and I manage? And that’s why I don’t think I could ever read Pet Sematary in its entirety again—I don’t want to think about that right now, especially when IP and I will probably be making our decision sooner rather than later. I don’t want to spend a few more nights dreaming about toddlers and highways, blood-spattered clothing or tiny coffins.

I looked at the book again, now in the house, studying the cover, something I don’t remember doing before. I felt my stomach turn a bit when, past Church, I saw that you could make out Louis carrying Gage, the tiny feet limp, the head lolling back. I put the book down again, a little unnerved, trying not to imagine myself having to carry a dead child. I know that King is a master at pointing out the horror in the everyday, but this one was just a little too everyday for me. I know it happens all around the world to people (do we not see too many sad pictures like this from Iraq?), and I’ll confess that it’s one of my greatest fears that it’ll decide to settle on us the moment IP and I decide to have a kid.

I then inexplicably found myself flipping the book open, and I landed on Gage’s funeral. The grief was so visceral, so shaking, the I actually found myself tearing up at that point. Yes, laugh, Stephen King made me cry, haha—but I’ll admit it without shame. Since it’s a very real fear I have (and that I’d say most parents have), and since we’ve been discussing kids more and more, I felt affected. I felt sad.

And then the real kicker: after Gage is resurrected into a little hell beast that murders his neighbor and his mom (yeah, spoilers again, bite me), Louis is able to kill the monster inside his son’s body with a shot of morphine. Before he collapses, the book says that the real Gage emerges, his face unhappy and filled with pain, crying out “Daddy!” before falling face forward. The thought of putting my kid through pain and unhappiness, just to hold on a little longer, would be a temptation I could succumb to even if it’s unfair to a child and selfish of me. And no, I’m not talking about evil cemeteries; I’m talking about painful treatments, life-prolonging methods that are joyless, lifeless. But how unfair would it seem to have to let go so soon? And by soon I mean at any point in the child’s life (the rule should be that I go first). Oh, that got me. That totally got me.  A child would look to me for comfort and safety and mercy; ruled by own selfish desires, I would hope I could master myself enough to give what was needed.

Yes, I am totally over-analyzing Pet Sematary. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t bring up one of my biggest fears in life. Of course it won’t be the deciding factor in whether or not IP and I will have kids—that would be a bit much—but it’s probably a book I would drop kick out of the house as soon as I got pregnant.  The novel would be something I’d be better off not thinking about at all once I’m at that point.

Damn you, Stephen King. Damn you.