Nighty-Nightmare (2 page)

     
CHAPTER ONE      
The Adventure

     
CHAPTER TWO     
Two Men and a Dawg

CHAPTER THREE     
Things Are Not What They Seem

  
CHAPTER FOUR      
Nobody Here But Us Chickens

    
CHAPTER FIVE      
Nighty-Nightmare

       
CHAPTER SIX     
Once Upon a Time in Transylvania

CHAPTER SEVEN     
A Family Forever

  
CHAPTER EIGHT    
Dawg Gone! (And That's Not All)

    
CHAPTER NINE    
Trail's End

[
EDITOR'S NOTE
]

SOON AFTER THE PUBLISHING HOUSE
for which I work was purchased by a large manufacturer of computers and herbal soft drinks, I found myself cleaning out my desk in preparation for a move to new quarters. Feeling a little melancholy, I was delighted to discover in the very bottom drawer a manuscript of
Bunnicula, A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery.
This was one of my first books as an editor, and it brought back happy memories of the afternoon its canine author, Harold X., appeared at my door, the typewritten pages clenched in his teeth.

I hadn't seen Harold in a long time, not since before he'd hired a literary agent to handle his affairs. Wondering what had become of him (and eager to find out if he'd written anything since his last book,
The Celery Stalks at Midnight),
I rang up his agent, only to be informed by a machine that she had given up her business to become a yoga instructor. I replaced the receiver and wondered if I would ever see Harold again.

Gently I laid the manuscript at the top of the box of items I would personally move to my new office, reflecting once again on the changing times. You can well imagine my delight when a few days later I saw Harold's familiar face peek round the edge of my half-open door.

I dashed down the hall to the nearest vending machine, so we could celebrate our reunion over a chocolate bar. Happily I munched my half while reading the note accompanying Harold's new manuscript:

Dear friend,

My literary agent and I have parted ways. She wanted to call my new book
Beyond the Further Adventures of Bunnicula: The Final Hare, or Terror in the Woods Part IV—The Book.
She said it would look great in paperback. Personally, I couldn't see it. In any event, shortly after she failed to sell the T-shirt rights to her latest best seller, she changed careers.

Perhaps it is for the best. Now I can concentrate on writing without my mind being cluttered with commercial concerns. Knowing that you share with me a devotion to Literature, I hope you
will find this latest effort worthy of your consideration.

Yours sincerely,
Harold X.
          

After Harold left, I pushed aside the fleeting thought that the title
Nighty-Nightmare
would look great on a sleepshirt and began to read.

[
ONE
]

I
T BEGAN on the bottom of a canoe in the middle of Boggy Lake, some sixty miles from home and fifty yards from solid ground. The
gentle rocking of the boat was lulling me to sleep when I felt Mr. Monroe's hand come to rest on that spot between the tops of my ears where the hair goes every which way and the scalp seems to lie forever in wait for a little love and attention. I sighed. Three pats usually led to some vigorous scratching. But this time something was wrong. Mr. Monroe didn't lift his hand after the second pat. Instead, he left it there flat and heavy, like an iron forgotten in the rush of attending to more pressing matters.

I looked up, hoping to hear that he'd grown tired of fishing and was ready to head back to the cabin and cook up some s'mores. Ever since Toby and Pete had introduced me to those gooey, crispy, chocolaty delights the summer before, I couldn't get enough. But s'mores were not what was on Mr. Monroe's mind. Alas. No, he was in the mood for reflection. And who better to share such moments, he was undoubtedly thinking, than man's best friend himself?

“Harold,” he said, staring off at the pine trees along the lake's edge, “I'm going to be forty soon.

You know what that means, don't you?”

Birthday cake, I thought.

“It means half my life is over. Half my road is traveled. Half my songs are sung.” I'd never thought about middle age that way before. Gee, I thought, half my naps are taken.

I whimpered sympathetically.

Mr. Monroe looked at me and smiled. “You understand what I'm talking about, don't you, ol' buddy?” In all the years I'd known him he'd never called me ol' buddy. I mean, he's a college professor. This was serious. “You know what we need? We need an adventure, Harold. We need to do something we've never done before. Something we always wanted to do in our youth but never did.” I never chewed a chair leg, I thought. That would be fun. “Listen, boy, we're only here for a few days, but we still have time to do something new and adventurous and fun. Let's go on an overnight camping trip! We'll sleep out in the open, under the stars. What do you think, Harold?”

Mosquitoes, I thought. Ticks, I thought. Cockleburs. I wasn't sure I liked the idea at all. But then
something else occurred to me.

S'mores.

My tongue fell out of my mouth, and the next thing I knew I was looking into Mr. Monroe's eyes and drooling.

“That's the spirit, Harold,” he said. “Let's go tell the others.”

The paddle hit the water with a sharp smack. Mr. Monroe's eyes glinted with determination as he carried us quickly to shore. He wasn't simply homeward bound, however; he was bound for adventure, bound for recapturing his youth.

I had no idea then that he had set his course as well on what would prove to be the most terrifying night of my life.

TEN MINUTES LATER, we were at the door of “Lake Expectations,” the Monroes' cabin retreat, named after Mr. Monroe's favorite book. The boys, who seemed to be the only ones around, came running when they heard their father call out his news. I couldn't help noticing that despite
their enthusiasm, they managed to keep their tongues in their mouths.

“That is
so
cool,” Pete shouted. “Can we go tonight?”

“Yeah, Dad, can we?” Toby echoed.

“I don't know,” Mr. Monroe said as we all went inside. “I've never done this sort of thing before. There's a lot of preparation involved.”

“Don't worry,” said Pete. “I'll take charge.”

“Well,” his father said.

“No, its okay. Really,” Pete said, in a tone I'd heard him using a lot lately. “I've been reading up on camping. For my badge, see. I know all about this stuff.”

Mrs. Monroe came in from the back porch then, carrying a chipped pitcher full of buggy flowers. “Is this the secret project you've been working on?” she asked Pete.

Pete shook his head. “That's a different merit badge.”

“Why can't you tell us about it?” Toby said.

“Because it's none of your business, squirt.”

“Pete,” said Mrs. Monroe, wiping the bottom of
the pitcher with her hand and placing it on the table.

“Well, it isn't fair,” Pete said. “Toby thinks he has to do everything I do.”

“I'm a scout, too,” Toby said.

Pete looked at his younger brother and laughed.

“You're a Bobcat,” he said. “Anybody can be a Bobcat.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Toby mumbled.
“You
were one once.”

“Boys,” said Mrs. Monroe. “Robert.”

“Right,” Mr. Monroe said. “If we're going to go on an overnight, let's have some fun doing it. I don't know what your other project is, Pete, but I see no reason why Toby can't help you out on this one. Why don't you get those camping books of yours, and we'll all pitch in? The sooner we're ready, the sooner we can leave.”

“Yippee!” Toby shouted. “Can the animals come with us?”

“Oh, I don't know about
that,”
Mrs. Monroe said. “They'll be fine here for one night.”

“But they'll miss all the fun,” Toby said. He
ran over and gave me a hug. “Harold wants to go, don't you, boy?” I licked his ear. “See?”

Mr. Monroe patted my head. Three times. And then he began to scratch. “This was Harold's idea almost as much as mine,” he said. “I think he deserves to go.”

“It's not Harold I'm worried about,” Mrs. Monroe said. “It's the other two.”

“Mom,” said Pete, “there are three of them and four of us. They'll be okay. Really. Trust me.” There was that tone again. It suddenly dawned on me that he used it only with his parents. He rarely yelled at them anymore; most of the time, he just smiled and spoke patiently, as if he'd discovered that they weren't as bright as they'd always let on. He seemed to be saying, “It's okay. Your secret is safe with me. I can handle making all the decisions from now on.” I think this change occurred shortly after he turned eleven.

“Well, all right,” Mrs. Monroe replied, “but four people for three animals is one person too many.
You
three are in charge of them.”

“It's a deal,” said Mr. Monroe.

Mrs. Monroe swatted at the bugs that had migrated from the pitcher of flowers to a nearby bowl of fruit. “I'll run to the store for supplies,” she said, “while you fellas get the tents and sleeping bags in order. Do we even have a tent, Robert?”

Mr. Monroe looked blankly at his wife.

“No problem,” said Pete. “Come on, Dad. I'll show you how to make a simple tent out of a tarp. We
do
have a tarp, don't we?”

Mr. Monroe looked blankly at his son.

I decided this would be a good time for me to leave. The family had their work cut out for them. And so did I. I had to break the news to Chester.

“Camping on Boggy Lake!?” Chester shouted, when I told him. “Didn't those bozos ever see
Friday the Thirteenth?”

“I don't see what a stupid old horror movie has to do with real life,” I said. Chester, being a cat, needs to have his reality checked from time to time, the way car owners have their oil checked.

Because he likes to read so much and watch all those movies on television, he's developed a reality leak that requires constant attention.

“Oh, you don't, eh?” he said, squinting in a knowing sort of way—or because the sun was in his eyes, I couldn't tell which. “Stories like that don't just materialize out of thin air, you know.”

“
I
know that,” I replied. Before I could say anything more, however, we were joined by Howie, who bounded up the steps of the back deck and practically knocked Chester over in his eagerness to be a part of the conversation.

“I know where stories come from, Pop,” he said, gasping for air. Howie was usually out of breath. In fact, when he first came to live with us, less than a year ago, I was sure he suffered from some sort of bronchial ailment. But then I remembered what I'd been like as a puppy, and I realized he didn't have asthma after all. He was just young, and life was keeping him too busy to stop and catch his breath.