“[S]ometimes dead is better…”
- Stephen King, Pet Sematary
Horror has a deserved reputation for being a genre able to make important societal points while still being fantastically entertaining. To be sure, there is a lot of mindless horror, where excess seems the entire point. But when it’s done at the highest levels, it can explore topics as serious and varied as racism, sexism, and nuclear war while still delivering a cathartic fright.
Pet Sematary is a high-concept novel that can be boiled down to a single sentence: Indian burial ground brings the dead back to life. In all honesty, it is not a description that instills much confidence that it is anything other than throwaway fiction. It gives off strong vibes of being yet another zombie varietal or the mossy foundation for a Roger Corman movie.
During one Halloween season, though, when I began to ask people for some suggestions on seasonal reading, this is the title that was recommended to me over and over again. Having confidence in Stephen King – who is always interesting, even when he’s awful – I finally picked this up.
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If you are one of those people who’s said that Pet Sematary is the scariest thing you’ve ever read, you are not alone. King himself agrees with you. Indeed, in introducing my version of the book, King claims that even he thought he had gone too far, and that it would never be published.
Obviously, this is an unverifiable story that reeks of a carnival barker selling his wares. I doubt King ever worried about Pet Sematary’s prospects for publication, and in terms of grotesqueness and bad taste, this seems almost tame. In a sense, though, I agreed with King’s sentiments. Pet Sematary pushes up against the boundaries of what most readers are willing to tolerate in their amusements.
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At 395 pages – in my paperback edition – this is a relatively svelte entry by King’s standards. I don’t think he’d even finished introducing all the characters in The Stand in 395 pages. With all trace of fat and filler sliced away, Pet Sematary is one of King’s tighter, more efficient tales. There are only a handful of characters, and just a few big set pieces. King only throws a couple punches, but they all land squarely in the groin.
Things kick off with the Creed family (Louis and Rachel, and their two young kids, Eileen and Gage) arriving at their new home in Maine, after relocating from Chicago. Louis is a doctor who has taken a job with the University of Maine. Their new house is a big and beautiful New England colonial. The only downside is that it’s located right next to a busy road well-traveled by recklessly speeding semitrucks.
The Creed’s new neighbor is the benignly intrusive Jud Crandall, an old man who steps in to fill the paternal role that Louis missed due to his own father’s premature death. It doesn’t take long for Jud to show Louis some of their new home’s features. Prominent among them is a pet cemetery that has a misspelled sign giving this book its title. Through Jud – a classic King character, who is always oversharing – we learn that beyond the pet cemetery is a Micmac burial ground. According to Jud, he buried his childhood dog in that space, and it came back to life, a canine Lazarus that was suddenly meaner than hell and smelled like death.
For a shortish book, Pet Sematary is long on setup. It takes its time building to the inevitable consequences of living next to a place that cheats Death. For the first 200 or so pages, not a lot happens, though King generously foreshadows much of what is to follow.
At the halfway point, he delivers a shot to the solar plexus with a major twist – followed by two cheap writer’s tricks – all in succession. Starting with this breathless sequence, things race straight downhill to the chilling finale.
The twist itself – which hides in plain sight – is King’s crowning achievement. It is not a scene of supernatural horror or apocalyptic fireworks. Instead, it is an immensely powerful portrait of sorrow that is closer to James Agee’s A Death in the Family than anything else from the master of pop horror.
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Part of King’s success has been his ability to use horror to his own ends. He’s always worked at both the textual and subtextual level. He places a premium on his stories, to be sure, but always gives over space to ponder his themes. At his worst (the simplistic parable of The Green Mile), King wields his motifs with all the subtlety of Jack Nicholson putting an axe into Scatman Crothers. At his best (the portrait of an abusive, alcoholic father in The Shining), King’s subtext enriches and deepens what might otherwise be a forgettable spook-story.
Pet Sematary is, in some respects, vintage horror. But it worked for me – unpleasantly – on its second level. This is King’s meditation on the enormity of loss and the devastation of grief.
All King’s books are filled with death, but this is the rare book – not just in the King canon, but in general – that deals squarely with dying. It realizes the uncomfortable truth that our own deaths, while frightening, do not come close to the unspeakable prospect of losing the people we love. This reality – and it is very real – is so powerful that it has to be diluted lest the message become unpalatable. That is King’s true accomplishment, to be able to riff on ideas of life, death, and the afterlife without turning you away. Pet Sematary is almost good enough to deliver its sharp message without making you want to crawl into a corner and curl into the fetal position.
Almost.
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It seems like a lot of people first read Stephen King in their late-teens. Maybe a King novel was the first big “adult” book they ever read. When they read his stuff, they were genuinely scared, because they had yet to experience the true terrors of the world of adults.
With an exception or two, every King book I’ve read has been in my thirties and forties. Thus, the Boo! moments don’t make a hugely profound impression on me. I am pretty much immune – to the point of indifference – with literary descriptions of the macabre. This is simply a function of having seen too much to be truly shivered by ghosts, aliens, or a homicidal Plymouth Fury. I love King’s books, but it’s not his jump-scares that get me, but the insights into the human condition that are cleverly concealed behind the fearful symbols.
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Pet Sematary’s evocation of death is both philosophical and impactful, and even the novel’s cheap-gore elements cannot obscure its force. Horror is often viewed as a healthy way to channel our toxic fears. But King provides no release. He makes you look into the void of death, with all its infinite uncertainties, and simply ponder how hard it is to say goodbye. Pet Sematary gave me nightmares. Not of monsters or ghosts or zombie pets, but of busy roads, unwatched children, and the hidden clock that starts ticking away the moment we’re born.
Pet Sematary is a transcendent masterpiece of the horror genre. At the same time, it is exceedingly unpleasant to read, and certainly nothing I will ever pick up again. Once you strip away its grisly trappings, you are left with the chilling conclusion that we all imagine but refuse to say aloud: that all of us will lose everything.