The house looked right, felt right to Dr Louis Creed。
Rambling, old, unsmart and comfortable。 A place where the family could settle; the children grow and play and explore。 The rolling hills and meadows of Maine seemed a world away from the fume-choked dangers of Chicago。
Only the occasional big truck out on the two-lane highway, grinding up through the gears, hammering down the long gradients, growled out an intrusive threat。
But behind the house and far away from the road: that was safe。 Just a carefully cleared path up into the woods where generations of local children have processed with the solemn innocence of the young, taking with them their dear departed pets for burial。
A sad place maybe, but safe。 Surely a safe place。 Not a place to seep into your dreams, to wake you, sweating with fear and foreboding。