Steven Spielberg and Jack London team up to write a survival story. Someone slips a Wendigo in without them noticing. 
 Trisha is nine-years-old, obsessed with baseball, lost in the woods and, more unfortuantely, at the mercy of Stephen King. This turns out pretty fortunate for the reader. King thrives on getting into a characters head, humanizing them, and throwing out reams of backstory. When he's given mostly one person to go nuts over for over two hundred pages, it really works. 
 The supernatural starts to creep in. I won't preface that with "Of course," because King can spin a nonfantastic yarn fine. Still, it bleeds in slowly in a perfect slow burn as Trisha realizes something is stocking her. I called it a Wendigo, but that's a gross generalization. It's creepier. 
 The most brutal parts for me are the trademark Stephen King narrative asides. In another book I won't name for spoiler's sake, King offhandedly mentions at the end of a scene that the character we're following wouldn't have wasted so much time that day fixing the lawnmower if he knew he'd be dead in a few hours. 
 I love that. 
 Alfred Hitchcock once went over the difference between surprise and suspense. A sudden shock is good in the short term, but he believed that giving an audience information instead of surprising them works better. That link has a great example, contrast a scene where a bomb blows up out of nowhere against a bomb that the audience knows will go off in five minutes. 
 That's what King does here. When he says, "She really shouldn't have made that decision, though, and here's how it screwed her," and WE KNOW but SHE DOESN'T it's nail-biting. When he shows us how far the search party operation is, we cringe everytime Trisha thinks about being found. Brilliant stuff. 
 The climax is pretty good. I know people complain about King's endings, but this one seemed utterly appropriate. 
 Impossibly, there's a pop-up book that I can't even find an Amazon page for. I have to hunt that down.