I own nothing. Who really "owns" anything, anyway?

Bangor, Maine – 1884

Pleasantview Cemetery did not have much of a view, nor was it a particularly pleasant place. Of course, the landscapers had done what they could; adding rolling knolls, ponds and trees at artfully spaced locations to create an Arcadian, almost parklike atmosphere. But then one noticed the ubiquitous headstones ranging from simple granite slabs, some tilted at wild angles with numerous frost heaves, to ostentatious Greco-Roman mausoleums, and then one remembered why they had come. Like in a city park, one could afford to sit and watch the clouds roll by and contemplate the mysteries of life (and death) in here; unlike in a city park, one usually did not contemplate the more pleasant mysteries while in here.

Dolores Chastain sat by the cloying piles of flowers decorating her baby daughter's new grave, watching the iceman's cart plod down Mason Street. The burial service had ended some fifteen or even twenty minutes ago, but she was in no hurry to leave. That was part of the problem, it seemed. Everyone was in too much of a hurry these days. You could be in San Francisco in about five days by train, and even London in about the same amount of time by steamship. If you didn't have that time or money, you could use the new telephone and hear someone's voice instantly, from Augusta or Boston or even Tokyo.

And yet, despite all the rosy words in Harper's Weekly or Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper about how all this technology would vastly improve everyone's lives, the Grim Reaper continued to hang over the most vulnerable members of humanity like a vulture. A person might be able to get across the Atlantic in five days, but too many babies weren't guaranteed even that amount of time. Her little Matilda hadn't even gotten an hour after a breach birth and tangling in her own umbilical cord.

At the other end of this spectrum, Dolores' husband had been a victim as a soldier in the war of Progress, falling in the line of duty as a Maine Central Railroad engineer. Oh, but he had died a hero's death, her family and friends had reminded her. While the fireman had jumped from the engine as soon as they saw the rear lights of the stalled caboose, he had stayed on and held the brake as hard as he could, saving the passengers of the Portland Flyer at his own expense. But he had been a victim nonetheless, just as passengers killed in less fortunate train accidents were victims, just as those mangled or killed in the sweatshop mills and coal mines were victims. Despite the beatification of the Civil War dead, no one would say war was a wonderful thing. In the war of Progress, however, the casualties were simply mourned in private by their family and friends, then swept under the rug.

It isn't right, Dolores thought. Some people have lived for almost a century. With all this talk about humanity being more improved than ever before, some of us aren't even given a chance to start living. How is it that the same technology which took Norman was unable to save Matilda? If only I could have the chance…I'd never let anything happen to her…

There is…one way, a high, thin voice piped inside her head. Greater than any technology ever dreamed of.

Dolores' mouth bent against the recent frown lines and tear stains on her face as she smiled slightly. "What is it?" she breathed.

Have you ever been to Ludlow? , the voice asked.

She paused to think. "My brother-in-law has a farm there. And of course we pass through there on the way to Ellsworth or Bar Harbor."

There is…something there, which I think may answer all your questions. But first you shall need a shovel…

Ludlow, Maine—1943

There were three knocks at Bill Baterman's front door. His stomach was tied up in triple granny knots and his hands were already trembling as he made his way there from his easy chair. It was still too early for the mail, so he had an idea what this was all about. He had been deeply dreading this moment ever since his son Timmy had received his marching orders from Uncle Sam five months ago. But now that he could see it coming, like a condemned man, he saw no alternate route, and so he did just what condemned man would do—just keep walking.

The Western Union agent stood on Bill's front stoop with a shy yet solemn gaze straight into his soul. He handed Bill an envelope lined in black. "Telegram from the U.S. Army."

D91 25=LONDON UK JUL 17

BILL BATERMAN=

RR9 PEDERSEN ROAD LUDLOW ME=

:IT IS WITH DEEPEST REGRET THAT WE REPORT THAT WE REPORT THE LOSS OF YOUR SON PVT TIM BATERMAN STOP KIA CHARGING GERMAN MACHINE GUN NEST OUTSIDE ROME STOP WILL BE CONSIDERED FOR SILVER STAR POSTHUMOUSLY STOP WILL BE SHIPPED HOME AND BURIED W FULL MILITARY HONORS END=

LT PHILIP NIEDERMEYER US ARMY HQ EUROPEAN THEATER OF OPERATIONS LONDON UK

Once again, Bill felt his wife, dead for 10 years now along with their second child, slipping away from him like air from a balloon. Oh, but Timmy would be remembered as a hero, everyone would remind him. He'd get little American flags at his grave, his name added to the ever-growing list on the monument on the town green, and of course he'd be presented with a shiny new medal at his son's upcoming funeral. A medal that the recipient obviously wouldn't be able to wear.

But take away all that red, white and blue pomp and circumstance, and Timmy was just another boy dead long before his time, as dead as a kid playing in the street and hit by a truck, and as dead as his wife and their second son. Was that right?

Bill felt a slight sting on his right cheek and thought he heard something like a woman's cackling off in the distance. But that was probably just the loons down south around Prospect. The sound could carry. It was funny.

There is…something you can do, a high, thin voice whispered inside his head. But that voice didn't need to elaborate. He knew about that place in the woods off Route 15. His grandfather had told him about that place and its secrets, and his great-grandfather had told him and so on, going back who knew how long, possibly back to when the Indians still ruled this land. Men and towns grew their secrets…and tended them well. Yes, there was indeed something he could do.

Sam Haskell, the telegram agent, didn't know how many of these dreadful messages he had had to deliver in the year and a half that America had been involved in this war, but he guessed that "too many" would be a good enough answer. He had seen everyone from pretty young fiancées to toothless old grandparents break down in unstoppable tears. Even the occasional banshee screaming fit he could handle. But poor old Bill Baterman…he had never seen anything quite like it.

At first Bill's face eyes widened and his cheeks tensed up as if he'd been slapped. Then the left corner of his mouth began twitching and didn't stop for as long as he was there at his front stoop. Bill's eyes stared directly forward but seemed to be focused on the horizon. Was this what the returning servicemen were calling "the thousand-yard stare"? And then his lips turned upward in a smile that held a secret men were not meant to know. His mouth continued twitching.

Sam walked quickly back to his car and drove home, instead of back to the office. Once there, he took a long swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, slotted a sheet into his typewriter, and began typing.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

It is with the deepest regret that I announce my resignation…

1984

"Annnd that was Cyndi Lauper, with her latest single 'Time After Time'. Hard to believe that's the same gal who said girls just wanna have fun, eh? Not exactly a feel-good ditty if you asked me. Welp, either way, unless Casey Kasem's been lying to me—and he usually doesn't—that's Billboard's latest Number One! Now here's some more of those lovable lads from Down Undah reminding us to make love, not war, and to come get a shrimp off the bah-bie; it's Men at Work with 'It's a Mistake', and that's no mistake!"

Irwin Goldman turned down the car radio. He was 59 now and hadn't had much use for popular music since Truman was President. That new "music video" cable TV channel had only waxed the skids; nowadays all self-proclaimed musicians had to do to get famous was prance around in front of the cameras in earrings and makeup and bang, they were instant millionaires with their own jet airplanes. Just money for nothing, checks for free.

But his granddaughter Eileen "Ellie" Creed ate it up, and right now he and Dory only wanted her to regain some semblance of normalcy. (Also, the slow poignant tone of that last song seemed rather fitting for the current circumstances.) Of course, regaining normalcy would be far, far easier said than done for Ellie at this point. He shuddered to think how he would have weathered losing so many loved ones in less than two weeks, and at age six. He supposed he might now be a lifelong patient of some sanitarium. Ellie had had to spend another day under observation for possible shock, on top of her near-nervous breakdown (bullshit; it was a full-blown nervous breakdown, did you really think a six-year-old couldn't have a nervous breakdown?). But ever since they had flown back to Maine for the double funeral and burial of her parents, the little girl had been…well, functional at least. She still ate three meals a day. She was responsive to others. But…those were about the only times she ever talked. And her face… She didn't have the distant, intense, wide-eyed gaze of some that "Vietnam syndrome", but she almost always seemed to be looking at the ground with a completely neutral expression. She hadn't even cried at the services. It was like something had died inside her along with the rest of her immediate family.

So if the Top 40 radio Ellie so enjoyed might bring back part of her normal self (or least let her cry again), then she could listen to it and watch the MTV all she wanted. But Irwin had turned the radio off because they were nearing their final stop for the day before heading back to Bangor International Airport and Chicago. Irwin was surprised at first that she would to visit what had until last week been her house. So much blood had been spilled on that doorstep; so many bad memories hung over that old Cape Cod in a black, smoky cloud. The circumstances of the deaths only turned things from miserable to outright horrifying; Louis Creed had been brutally stabbed all over his body, and then…ugghh, he didn't like to think about it. Meanwhile Rachel had traveled back to Chicago with her parents after Gage's funeral, but then for some reason he was still trying to fathom, had made a marathon dash back to Maine after she and Ellie had suddenly had strange ideas that something bad was about to happen to Louis. She was run down on or about that evening by another one of those damned fertilizer trucks running up and down this damned road; the same fate that had met their youngest, Gage, not two weeks ago. For some reason her hair and clothes had been caked with dirt. Police were still trying to determine if there was some kind of link between the two deaths. Irwin himself could not begin to guess at any motive, or why a murderer would stab one victim and then push the next in front of a truck. Of course, he was an investment banker, not a homicide detective.

He had told Ellie that her parents had simply been killed in a car crash on their way back to the airport.

What the hell had been going on? The poor girl had been screaming about what sounded like omens and about how her daddy had just wanted them gone; that something very bad was about to happen; eventually saying it was "too late" before she was put under sedation. Was there actually some truth to all that talk about clairvoyance and ESP? And dammit, was there some kind of curse in this area? The family hadn't been here for a year, when things just went full-on Job for the Creeds. Suddenly Irwin desperately wanted to be back in Chicago, or even in, say, Japan; just anywhere other than this poisoned corner of the world.

But his dear, patient Dory, the one who had fully opened up to Louis in the wake of Gage's death and convinced Irwin to do the same, she had reminded him that not all of Ellie's memories of Ludlow were doom and gloom. There had also been moments of childhood laughter and gaiety, playing in the woods, sledding in the winter, doing other things that one didn't often get the chance to in the big city. And to top it off, this was where she had started kindergarten. But most importantly, her last memories of her parents and brother were here at this house. So he could see why she wanted to spend a few last minutes there before bidding farewell to Maine and returning to the Midwest.

Two police cars were still stationed at the house; one in the driveway and one on the street in front. As Irwin, Dory and Ellie climbed out of the rented Ford Fairmont, an Orinco fertilizer truck blasted past with an irritated blare of its horn. The respective drivers that had killed Irwin's grandson and daughter had since been fired, had their licenses suspended, and were out on bail, but obviously no court in the world would convict a truck. For all he knew, that could've been one of the fatal trucks rolling by just now, mocking them.

"I'd like to be alone for a bit, if that's okay," Ellie told them as they tried to follow her.

"Sweetheart, are you sure? You shouldn't bother the policemen," Dory said.

"I know I'm not allowed to cross the yellow tape," Ellie replied. "But I just want to go in the backyard for a little while. I'll be back soon." And she began walking alongside the house toward her old yard, taking care to avoid the police tape.

"Irwin, honey, shouldn't we follow her?" Dory protested.

Irwin sighed. "I'd like to, but…Lord knows I wanted time alone at my father's grave after he died. And whatever's going on inside her head now, I just don't know if I can do any good at this point. I tried with her father, and look how that worked out." He held his wife's hand and gazed up at the clear late May sky. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit concerned about her now, but if being so quiet and solitary is how she copes, then what can we do?" He tried to put on a soothing smile. "She's stronger than you think, dear. On the way over here I was thinking that if all this had happened to me when I was her age, I'd be lying and drooling in some nuthouse bed with the front third of my brain gone. For her to have gone to the services with no complaint, and then to come back to the place where all this shit began, I think she'll be her old self again inside of a week." At least, I sure hope so. Those eyes…

The grasshoppers and cicadas were beginning their ever-present summertime whir as Ellie Creed made her way up the narrow path leading from her old backyard to the Pet Sematary. In a brief burst of light, she changed into her blue-and-white Magical Girl outfit, which reminded her of Alice's dress in the Wonderland books. Her navy blue Soul Gem wasn't quite as bright as when she had first gotten it, but she was still charged with determination. She knew her parents hadn't really died in a car crash. Kyubey had told her everything; about the evil Witch lurking in the woods behind the Pet Sematary who had kissed her brother and led him into the road; how she'd kissed her daddy and driven him crazy; how she'd then done the same with her mommy when she flew back here to stop things. The weird white kitty hadn't told her what exactly this all had to do with the Pet Sematary, but when he said he could bring back her parents and even Gage for her, she couldn't say no, despite Paxcow's whispered pleas. But what did he know? Paxcow had said he could only warn but not interfere, and look how that had worked out.

She had been a little worried at first, when Kyubey had told her she would actually to fight this Witch if she wanted her family back. She had been in some pretty nasty arguments with her parents, Gage and some of her schoolmates, but never an actual fight. She had actual magical powers now (and Kyubey said he'd sensed a lot of power in her), but what if this Witch decided to get dirty and start punching or kicking? Punches hurt, after all. Would she need bandaids after this, or perhaps even a stiff, itchy cast for a broken leg or arm? Normy Swain in school had broken his arm last winter, and never stopped talking how sometimes it got so itchy and sore that he wished he could just saw his arm off. (He'd had to spend the rest of the afternoon in Time Out after saying that.) But then she remembered the rage boiling inside her, driving her up the trail. This Witch had killed her family, and Kyubey had told her it had killed many other people before. She wouldn't allow it.

And she desperately wanted to see her family again, but she would only let the tears come later. Crying was a sign of weakness, Kyubey had told her. If she wanted to win this fight, she would have to focus on her burning anger and hate toward her family's murderess. She went to Sunday School; surely she remembered that Bible verse about an eye for an eye, right? (Actually, she didn't think they had covered that one yet, but she had heard about it at recess from Rebecca Carmody; she was always talking about the Bible.) But yes, Ellie did know about that one verse…and she agreed with it.

"Are you ready for your big fight, Ellie?" Kyubey asked, emerging from the underbrush beside the trail. "Rundeblumchen is quite powerful, but I think I can sense even more power in you." Yes, quite a bit. Truly that old Micmac burial ground back in the woods and its current…"resident" had been one of the Incubators' most successful "generators" in their time on this planet. Rundeblumchen's Familiars were always rather hungry of course (as was she), but as long as they drew in new contractees, that was all that mattered. And Kyubey's superiors would be quite pleased with this latest catch. It was rather unusual for such a young girl to make a contract—but not unknown. Yet it could feel her energy pulsing hot against its sensors even now, as they continued toward her destiny. Not even Joan of Arc, the self-proclaimed Handmaiden of the Lord, had felt this strong.

"I'm not afraid of anything anymore!" Ellie snarled, drawing out her child-proportioned sword. "An eye for an eye!"

"Then I wish you the best of luck," Kyubey said. "Now at some points you may hear some funny sounds, but they're just loons, and maybe the cicadas too. The wind can carry the sound around. It's funny."

A/N: The name Dolores comes from the Spanish word for "sorrows", or "misery". Go back to that part of the story and look at the name again, then see me after class. "Rundeblumchen" is German for "little round flower". I don't think it's a real name; so just call it poetic license.

And the name "Madoka" can be written with the kanji for "circle" and "flower".