I vaguely remember the movie ‘Pet Sematary’ that played in HBO back in the days. HBO was particularly kind to it, showing it as a part of their horror weekends, or just randomly airing it to the unsuspecting kid who was recently introduced to the world of foreign movies. The odd spelling caught my eye first, but that wasn’t the reason I had let it creep inside that foggy corner of my mind where creatures of the imagination lurked : the premise was utterly vile.
When I finally decided to read Stephen King, there were many choices in front of me, and most of them came from my viewing of their movie adaptations. ‘Cujo’, ‘Carrie’ and ‘IT’ were instant to-reads, recommended even by the bibliophile friends, but as I was surfing through the entire collection, that buried adolescence thought resurfaced though the quagmire like a Wendigo and commanded that I opened its grave first.
And like a servant of its will, I bought this book and started to read.
This book is much, much scarier than the movie (as almost always), and I am amazed because I know the plot. I know what happens, what is going to happen, yet the way Stephen builds up the ante is unlike anyone else. Being a big fan of Lovecraftian horror stories and their almost absurd way of spreading the veil of mystery, I was immediately taken aback by how leisurely the story started – like it was nothing at all, like King was just narrating a man in midway of his career in the most boring way possible – crafty, yet drab.
There are some highs in that flat narration, the slow raise of hair around your neck when you feel something is not right, but then they are quickly drowned in the problems of the modern life. The real fun however starts after the second half when the story deviously tricks you into falling into a bog of primal forces. Then you are not Jud Crandall – the voice of reason, not the road that kills, not Rachel Creed who is too scarred for her own good, not little Ellie, not Gage, not even Victor ‘Paxcow’ Pascow who has risen from the dead as a sentry, a warning between the worlds of the living and the dead. This is the Pet Sematary I remember from my childhood days, the bone chilling surrender to a power that is ancient and primal yet very much alive in today’s world, the one that is shapeless and formless yet at times manifests itself like a cat, or a child.
Pet Sematary makes you Louis Creed, a man slowly spiraling into madness from the sane world, and that is scarier than anything else.