Newkirk trudged through the woods, knowing he was sulking but stabbing each foot to the ground with a subtle annoyance anyways. The moon was lighting the path in front of him well enough, but he stared at his feet, mainly so he could aim every step as a sharp kick at the earth.
Carter was only a few steps behind him, keeping pace quietly with Newkirk, although Carter's soft placement of each footstep and general lack of usual chatter was evoking more sadness than the irritation Newkirk radiated. And that quiet reverie only served as fuel for Newkirk to feel even more frustration.
"I still cannot believe," Newkirk hissed over his shoulder to his companion, "That you convinced the Colonel to let you do this."
"I'm sorry Newkirk," Carter said, and Newkirk could hear the way his mouth turned down at the corners as he said it, "You didn't have to come."
Newkirk closed his eyes for a brief moment. It was absolute nonsense, them heading out in the woods for something this trivial, and he would stand by that to anyone who asked. But it was damn near impossible to stay mad at Carter when he sounded like that.
He slowed to a stop and turned to face Carter, not realizing that Carter's eyes were on the ground until the other man nearly walked into him. Newkirk placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him, and when Carter finally looked up to meet his gaze, his eyes were glassy with tears.
"Oh, bloody hell Carter. I couldn't very well let you come out here alone could I? Now how much further?"
"Just a bit more," Carter gulped, "We should see the sign any minute."
Newkirk's frown deepened slightly, and he took a sharp glance at the small cardboard box Carter carried in both hands.
"Well let's get on with it then," he said as he turned and resumed walking, "Can't spend all night burying a bloody mouse."
"His name was Felix!" Carter protested, nearly sobbing, "And he wasn't just a mouse, he was a pet, and he deserves to be buried up here just as much as any of them."
"I agreed to do it, didn't I? Ah finally, here we are."
Just past the closest cluster of trees, the forest around them opened slightly into a small clearing. Newkirk stopped at its opening, pausing to take in the sight before him. At the back of the clearing was a cluster of toppled trees, tangled and warped in on each other, stacked higher than he was tall, and the still standing trees around it were packed in so tight you couldn't see past any of it. Before the mass of trees, scattered about the clearing were dozens of small slabs of wood or thin metal stuck into the ground with no clear pattern. There appeared to be markings on them, or maybe it was writing.
Directly in front of them, a thick stick had been planted into the ground. Affixed to the top of it was a placard that read:
Pet Sematary
"That is why you don't let nippers what can't yet read, write your signs," quipped Newkirk as he raised an eyebrow.
"I think it's cute," argued Carter sternly, standing next to Newkirk now as they paused before entering the graveyard, "It's the perfect spot to lay Felix to rest. He loved kids."
"How on God's green earth would you know if he liked kids?"
"He liked me," smiled Carter sadly, "And I like kids."
Newkirk stared at him blankly.
"C'mon buddy," Carter said to the box in his hands, ignoring Newkirk's expression, "Let's find you a spot."
Carter began to move around the clearing, searching for a spot that was not already taken by some other unfortunate creature. Newkirk on the other hand, moved around the outskirts, staring out into the trees, trying to stay alert for any hint that there was anyone else moving about tonight. But when he reached the far side and stared up at the mass of fallen timbers, not even the moon could shine through the twisted branches and allow him to see what was on the other side.
"Newkirk?" Carter called out, "Is there more space on the other side of those trees? I can't find room for his headstone here."
Newkirk looked around to see Carter had pulled a large flat rock from his pocket. On its face was written, in what Newkirk thought he recognized as the tar they used to paint their faces when they left camp after dark, simply "Felix".
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the stone that was 5 times larger than the animal it would sit over, Newkirk shook his head instead.
"Can't see mate. We'd have to climb over it."
Carter picked his way carefully through the graves as he joined Newkirk in standing before the trees.
"I think we could climb it." Carter said confidently.
"Are you daft? Look at all them branches, I'm not scratching myself half to death because your dead mouse needs a mausoleum."
"You don't have to come. It looks like the trees might open up again on the other side, there's probably a better place the others haven't used yet over there. I'll climb up and be right back."
And without waiting for a response, Carter tucked the headstone and the sad little box under his arm, and pulled himself up onto the first log and then to the second.
Newkirk closed his eyes once more. He would follow Carter into battle anywhere, but this? Pure foolishness. And yet before he knew what he was doing, his feet were following Carter's up onto that first low log, then he was using his arms to pull himself up onto the next one. They climbed slowly forward, one tree to the next, and Newkirk found himself wondering at the fact that he had not been scratched at all as they neared the top. It had seemed impossible from where they had stood at the bottom, with these logs covered in thick brambles. And yet as he looked down at his feet now, he could not recall where exactly those branches had been. They certainly were not gathered at his feet now, for each step he took felt flat and sturdy, and he had no fear of sticking himself each time he placed a hand on the tree above.
But he hardly had time to consider the matter before he realized that he and Carter had reached the top. Newkirk stopped and glanced at Carter, who looked back at him with an uneasy look. Carter glanced back the way they came, and Newkirk followed his gaze. The tiny clearing they had begun their climb from was far, far below them. Much farther than it had any right to be.
"Do you feel strange Newkirk?" Carter asked queasily.
"I feel fine," Newkirk grunted, for he had entirely no idea what to say, "And I will feel better when that mouse is in the ground and we're on our way back to camp."
Carter stared at him for a moment, then nodded shakily and began to make his way down the other side. Newkirk followed, and with much the same ease as they had made their way up the tower, they found themselves at the bottom again.
Dusting himself off, Newkirk took a breath before turning to Carter.
"Shall we -" he broke off when he saw Carter's face.
Carter was bathed in moonlight, staring slack jawed straight ahead, the headstone and box hanging limply in his arms. Newkirk looked in the same direction, and immediately assumed a similar expression.
There was a rocky clearing before them, similar in size and shape to the one they had just left. But instead of being surrounded by thick trees, instead here the ground dropped off steeply on all sides, and below were no trees but what appeared to be thick green hills. The area was lit by moonlight the same as the forest had been, but the air seemed somehow thicker here, as though the light hung upon it and made the low fog that spread between the hills glow. And worst of all, when Newkirk finally pulled his eyes up to look at the moon, he saw that it was alone in the sky. There were no stars here.
Carter began to move forward into the clearing, and Newkirk snapped an arm out to grab him before he took a step onto it.
"What are you doing?" he hissed.
"Look at the ground, Newkirk," Carter said quietly, "It's a graveyard here too."
He was right, Newkirk realized as he did as Carter instructed. What he had taken for a scattering of rocks, he saw when he looked closer were actually several small rocks stacked atop each other. Cairns of sorts, he figured, not very different from the makeshift headstones in the other graveyard. He lowered his arm, and Carter moved forward to kneel next to one of them.
Before Newkirk could say anything else, Carter pulled the last item he had brought from his pocket. It was a small makeshift shovel that they had crafted in their earliest tunneling days back at the Stalag. Carter stuck it into the ground, and quickly and efficiently dug a short, shallow grave.
Newkirk watched Carter work, shifting uneasily on his feet. This place was unnatural. He could not explain how they got here, not really. Nor could he explain the presence of what appeared to be some sort of low marsh land, stretching what appeared to be miles through the middle of a forest they had trekked through numerous times without coming across it before. Carter seemed unaffected by this feeling, as he lowered the box containing Felix's remains into the grave and pushed the dirt back on top of it.
As Carter studied the best way to place the headstone, Newkirk couldn't help but look out over the low hills that poked up through the fog beyond the edges of this strange space. The fog appeared to be rolling between them, though there was little wind here. Newkirk looked back at Carter, glad to see he appeared to be nearly finished. When he looked back out at the hills, every part of him froze. There was no mistaking it. The hills had somehow grown higher. And closer.
"Carter," he said, not taking his eyes off the foggy hills, "We need to go."
Something in his voice and face must have warned Carter, for he looked up and backed away from the headstone immediately.
"What is it?"
"There," breathed Newkirk, unable to say anymore as he pointed out into the fog.
Carter turned, and as he did he fell into stunned silence as well. For the hills had indeed grown closer. But this time they could see it as the hills rose and fell, rose and fell.
Those weren't hills. Something out there was walking.
"Carter…" Newkirk said shakily.
Carter reached out behind him until he grabbed Newkirk's arm, and without another word they spun about and ran for it.
Newkirk threw himself at the tower of logs that blocked their path back, and he heard Carter crash into them too. He pulled and yanked and hurled himself forward, and in only a moment he found himself face flat in the tiny pet graveyard on the other side. Carter landed with a thump behind him, and his wide eyed stare met Newkirk's for only half a second before they began as one to run.
They did not stop running again until they slid back into the tunnel below Stalag 13.
88888888
It had been three days since Newkirk and Carter had returned from burying Felix, and Newkirk had not spoken a word about what they had seen in the woods that night. If they didn't speak of it, he reasoned, they could both go on pretending they hadn't seen anything. And eventually, they would be able to forget it. Eventually, he would stop having nightmares of that clearing, of those hills, of a creeping fog that surrounded him and wouldn't let go…
Newkirk shook himself internally as he laid down in his bunk. The others in the barracks had already settled down. He and Carter were the last ones into their bunks, and he could tell by the way the bunk below him shifted that Carter was as restless as he was. Unfortunately, Carter was not as determined to not speak.
"Newkirk?" Carter whispered, "Are you awake?"
"Yes," Newkirk sighed, "What is it?"
"Did… did you get any scratches… from the trees… that night?"
Newkirk pretended to think for a moment, though he already knew the answer. He remembered the way that the branches had seemed to part for him as he climbed, making a path, welcoming him almost…
"No," he answered slowly, "No scratches."
There was silence, and for a moment Newkirk thought that was the end of Carter's questioning.
"I didn't either. But… every morning since then I've been finding some. On my arms, on my neck. More every time. And they seem… fresh."
"Scratching yourself in your sleep, that's all, Andrew," Newkirk said more forcefully than he meant to, "Stop imagining things. And quit nattering, I'm trying to sleep here."
Carter fell silent, and Newkirk stared at the ceiling above him and couldn't help but think how similar the dark, blank ceiling was to the starless sky that had hovered above them that night. He closed his eyes tightly, and willed himself to think of something, anything else, until he finally drifted off into a thankfully dreamless sleep.
88888888
Newkirk felt himself awaken, but he didn't move. He could not hear any movement in the barracks, and the lights had not yet been turned on, so he figured he had woken too early to be getting ready for roll call. He kept his eyes closed, trying to will himself back to sleep to take advantage of however much more time he had to stay in his bunk. Then he realized what must have woken him as he felt something twitch and turn on his chest.
His eyes popped open, and he found himself staring straight into the cold dead eyes of Felix. Except Felix couldn't be there. They had buried him in that strange, queer place.
And then Felix raised a ruined, grey paw, and scratched a claw down Newkirk's throat.
Newkirk screamed bloody murder.
Note: Inspired by both the prompt for the Guess Who challenge, and of course - Stephen King, and the first book that genuinely scared the daylights out of me.