by James Howe
“I was in a hurry, okay? It’s not my problem if you can’t keep up!” Pete said, yanking his arm away so hard he almost toppled over. How Toby and Pete have arrived at the ages of ten and twelve without losing body parts I have no idea.
Before Toby could say anything else, Pete’s pocket rang. Okay, it wasn’t really his pocket. It was this thing in his pocket called a cell phone. He’d been given it as a birthday present a few weeks earlier. Why a twelve-year-old boy needs to carry a phone in his pocket is beyond me. All I can say is, it’s only a matter of time until Chester has a cell phone (even if he doesn’t have a pocket), and when he does: Watch out!
Pete pulled the phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and yelled, “I’m not talking to you!”
People are so amusing. I mean, to tell the person you’re talking to that you’re not talking to them? You have to admit, it’s pretty funny.
Anyway, the next thing Pete said to whoever it was he wasn’t talking to was, “Oh, yeah?” (Pete says, “Oh, yeah?” a lot.) “Well, who cares if you think M. T. Graves isn’t a real person? He is real and he is cool and I don’t care if you and everybody in the whole school or the whole world or the whole universe thinks his books are so over! They are so not—and you know it! They’re awesome! And I wrote to him and told him so. So there!”
Pete snapped his cell phone shut and glared at his little brother, who was staring at him.
“You wrote to M. T. Graves?” Toby asked.
“Yes, I wrote to M. T. Graves. Want to make something of it?”
Toby shook his head. “No, I think it’s cool. I mean, I like the FleshCrawlers books, too.”
That was it! The crow on the envelope was the same as the one on the covers of the FleshCrawlers books. I knew about the FleshCrawlers series because not only did Pete read them all the time, they were Howie’s favorite books as well. Howie read them over Pete’s shoulder and had them all practically memorized. Maybe the picture of the crow on the envelope meant that the letter was from M. T. Graves! I grabbed it with my teeth and trotted over to Pete.
“Get away from me!” he shouted when he saw me coming. Do you begin to grasp why Pete is not my absolute, number one favorite person in the world? “And what are you doing with that letter? Are you going to eat it? Harold, that is so gross!”
I dropped the envelope at his feet and whimpered.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” said Pete. “Toby, it’s your turn to walk Harold and Howie.”
Correction: Pete Monroe is even thicker than Alpo.
“He probably wants his snack,” Toby said. “I’ll get it in a minute. So how come you wrote to M. T. Graves? What did you say?”
“It was an assignment for school. We had to write to an author. Everybody else chose J. K. Rowling or James Howe, but I picked M. T. Graves. And not just because he writes the best books.”
Toby nodded his agreement.
“I also wrote him because his publisher was having this contest called ‘Why FleshCrawlers Gross Me Out the Most.’ I entered the contest with my letter. That’s called killing two birds with one stone. No offense to Edgar Allan Crow.”
“Who?” Toby asked.
“Duh. Edgar Allan Crow. Everybody knows that’s the name of his pet crow. You know, the one on the books. The FleshCrawlers logo! See?”
Pete ran to his backpack, dug through it, and yanked out a copy of The House That Dripped Eyeballs (FleshCrawlers #61). Reading from the back cover, he said, “‘M. T. Graves lives in a creepy castle on a remote mountaintop with only his bats, snakes, alligators, and favorite pet Edgar Allan Crow for companionship/”
No dogs? I thought as I picked up the envelope again and whimpered even louder.
Toby looked over at me. I looked into his eyes. I said with my eyes, Take this envelope out of my mouth. Look at it. Read the letter inside.
“I think Harold’s trying to tell us something,” Toby said.
Pete = Alpo. Toby = genius.
Toby removed the envelope from my mouth. “Look at this!” he cried. “It’s Edgar Allan Crow!”
At that moment Howie came racing in, breathless with excitement. “Did I just hear ‘Edgar Allan Crow’?” he asked, panting rapidly.
“Yes,” I told him, in as calming a voice as I could manage. “Pete wrote to M. T. Graves and—”
“Pete wrote to M. T. Graves?”
“Yes, Howie, Pete wrote to M. T. Graves, and M. T. Graves wrote back, and—”
“M. T. Graves wrote back?”
“Yes, Howie, and that envelope—”
“And that envelope?”
“Howie!” Chester snapped from the stairs. “You’ll give me a migraine.”
“Okay, Pop,” Howie said, “I will just as soon as I can find one. But first I want to hear about—”
“M. T. Graves!” Pete shouted, his hands shaking as he held the open letter out in front of him.
“So it is from him!” said Toby.
“Not only that,” said Pete. “It says I won the contest! I can’t believe it! M. T. Graves is coming to visit our school! And get this: He’s going to stay at our house!”
Howie began to howl.
“And he’s bringing Edgar Allan Crow!”
Chester began to hiss.
Toby and Pete looked at them. “We really do have very weird pets,” Pete said.
He grabbed his backpack and raced Toby up the stairs, nearly knocking Chester over in the process.
“I can’t wait to tell Mom and Dad!” I heard Pete shout. “But first I’m going to call Kyle and tell him that M. T. Graves is real! Ha!” Pete’s door slammed shut.
Chester’s eyes met mine. “The crow is coming,” he murmured. “The crow is coming, Harold. Do you know what that means?”
“Um, it means . . . we’ll be having corn for dinner?”
“No, Harold. It does not mean we’ll be having corn for dinner. It means we’re doomed. That’s what it means.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s a relief. Corn gets stuck in my teeth.”
TWO
Excellently Weird
That night at dinner Mr. and Mrs. Monroe couldn’t stop talking about their brilliant son. I don’t mean Toby, the really brilliant one. I mean Pete, the temporarily brilliant one.
“We didn’t even know you’d entered this contest, Pete,” Mr. Monroe was saying as he sat down at the table and I was moving into my usual spot next to Toby’s chair. Toby has been known to slip me a little something from time to time when nobody’s looking. Like I said: The kid’s brilliant.
“I didn’t want anyone to know about it,” Pete answered. “In case I lost.”
“Oh, Pete,” said Mrs. Monroe, “we wouldn’t have thought anything of it if you had lost. I just can’t believe you won— out of so many entries! I want to read that letter again.”
Mrs. Monroe passed by me on her way to her seat, carrying a platter of meat loaf in one hand and the letter from M. T. Graves in the other. After a silent, unanswered prayer that the meat loaf platter might slip from her fingers, I listened as she pulled her chair out and began to read the letter aloud.
Dear Peter Monroe,
Congratulations! After personally reading all fifteen thousand entries in the “Why Flesh-Crawlers Gross Me Out the Most” contest, I have selected yours as the winner! I am delighted that my books gross you out so much, but what impressed me even more was what you wrote about yourself and your family. I particularly enjoyed your description of your unusual pets.
As you know, the winner of this contest receives a visit by me to his or her school. I look forward to visiting your school, Peter! My publisher will be in contact with you about the details. Ordinarily, I would ask to be put up in a hotel, but you have made your family—especially your pets—sound so intriguing that I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask for lodging in your home. I will be bringing my good friend Edgar Allan Crow with me. Please be sure to ask your parents if they would very much mind housing an author and his co
rvine companion.
Until we meet, and with my gratitude for your enthusiastic support of my work, I am
Yours truly,
P.S. I’m looking forward to spending some quality time with your special pets!
“What do you think?” I asked Chester. As was his habit during meals, he was curled up under the table. Howie was curled up next to him.
“What do I think?” Chester said. “The guy read fifteen thousand entries on why his books are gross. He needs a life, that’s what I think.”
“Maybe that explains it,” Howie remarked. “Maybe M. T. Graves has been so busy reading all those contest entries he hasn’t had time to write any books. There haven’t been any new ones in a long time. Pete and I have been worried.”
Just then Mr. Monroe asked, “Pete, would you reread that part of your letter where you wrote about the animals? It was so descriptive.”
I could hear Pete’s big sigh even from under the table. “If I have to,” he said.
“Ooh, poor Pete,” Toby moaned. “Has to read his prize-winning letter again. Too bad I didn’t even know there was a contest!”
“Jealous!”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Boys!” Mrs. Monroe interjected in a no-nonsense tone.
“Fine,” Pete said. I heard him rustling some papers, and then:
“‘And the number one reason I think your books are the grossest is the excellently weird animals you put in them. I have pets who are weird, too, although they are not always excellently so.’”
Hmm. Do I bite him now or later?
“‘I have two dogs. Harold is big and old. He drools a lot.”’
Now.
“‘My brother Toby gives Harold chocolate treats, which everybody knows you’re not supposed to do, because chocolate can make dogs sick. I don’t think it has hurt Harold, though, except maybe in the brains department. He’s no Einstein, if you know what I mean.’”
Okay, so I wouldn’t really bite Pete. I’m not a biter. But I was considering some serious drooling on his foot when a piece of meat loaf suddenly materialized before me. I gratefully accepted it from Toby’s fingers. When I looked up to say thanks, I found him looking down at me with a worried expression on his face. I knew what he was thinking. Pete had given away our secret! Now that Mr. and Mrs. Monroe knew, would there be no more treats for my sweet tooth? How would I live without the occasional chocolate cupcake with cream in the center? Luckily, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything other than Pete’s literary genius. Personally, I couldn’t help wondering how Mr. Monroe, who is a college professor of literature, could be proud of anyone who wrote “excellently weird.” But for the moment at least, it looked like my future relationship with chocolate was secure.
Pete read on:
“‘Then there’s Howie. He’s this wirehaired dachshund puppy we got at this boarding kennel called Chateau Bow-Wow. He chases birds and barks at cars, and sometimes he lets out these totally bizarre howls that could make your flesh crawl. (Get it?) You’d probably like it when he howls, though. You’d think he was possessed or something. I mean, really, he could be a character in one of your books.’”
Poor Howie, I thought—until I noticed the dreamy smile on his face.
“Wow.” He sighed. “A character in an M. T. Graves novel. How awesome would that be?”
Chester shuddered. “Oh, yeah, right,” he said, “that’s what I live for—to be a psycho-creature in one of M. T. Graves’s demented novels. Is this guy totally warped or something? What’s he got against reality?”
Pete continued:
“‘But wait, it gets even weirder. Chester is our cat. But he’s not what you’d call a normal cat. He’s more like a cat from outer space. Sometimes he gets this look in his eyes like he’s beaming in messages from the home planet. And sometimes he does stuff that you’d have to be from a whole other galaxy to even think about doing! Like one time we came home and found him pounding a sirloin steak on top of our sound-asleep rabbit! Is he unreal or what?’”
Chester lifted his chin and said, “Reality is so overrated.”
“Hey, I wonder what Pete will say about Bunnicula,” Howie said.
I don’t know if I’d describe our bunny as “excellently weird,” but he is definitely unusual. Chester is convinced that Bunnicula is a vampire just because he’s turned a few vegetables white by draining them of their juices. Oh, and he can get in and out of his cage without anyone knowing how he does it. And he sleeps all day and is awake at night. And he has these fangs, and . . . well, Pete was doing a pretty good job of describing him, so I’ll let him take it from here:
“‘If you think Chester’s weird, you haven’t heard anything yet. We have this rabbit called Bunnicula. We named him that after we found him at a movie theater where Dracula was playing. When he came to live with us, our vegetables starting turning white. It took us a while to figure out that maybe he had something to do with it. Ever since we did, he’s been on a liquid diet, and there have been no more white vegetables. Other than the vegetable thing, he’s not so bad. I mean, he doesn’t drool or howl or beam in messages from his home planet or anything. In fact, you might even say he’s kind of cute and cuddly. Of course, he does have these red eyes that glow in the dark.
“‘In conclusion, Mr. M. T. Graves: You might write some weird stuff, but with pets like mine, I live it!’”
Mr. and Mrs. Monroe couldn’t help breaking into applause. I, meanwhile, couldn’t help wolfing down the piece of broccoli Toby had just lowered to me.
Chester shook his head. “Broccoli! You aren’t just weird, Harold. You’re excellently weird.”
“Why, thank you, Chester,” I said, my tongue trying to nab some florets that had strayed to my whiskers. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”
“Yes, well, appreciate this, my excellently weird friend. There’s something mighty peculiar going on here—and I’m not talking about broccoli. I’m talking about M. T. Graves and his ‘corvine companion.’ Meet me in the living room after the others have gone to sleep and I’ve had a chance to do some research.”
“May I come too, Pop?” Howie asked.
Chester rolled his eyes at being called Pop. It’s an automatic response at this point, since Howie has called Chester “Pop” for as long as he’s been calling me “Uncle Harold.”
“Yes, yes, you may come, too,” he said.
And so it was that a little before midnight Howie and I found ourselves stationed in front of Chester’s favorite chair in the living room. Sitting amid stacks of FleshCrawlers books, Chester looked down at us and warned, “There is trouble ahead. I told you that crow was an omen.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, stifling a yawn.
“The Potato Has a Thousand Eyes, My Sister the Pickled Brain, My Parents Are Aliens from the Planet Zorg, Don’t Eat the Cookies!—that’s what I’m talking about, Harold.”
“Chester,” I said, “do you remember when you went to see that nice psychiatrist, Dr. Katz? Do you remember how much he helped you?”
“I do not need a psychiatrist, Harold!”
“Okay, then, do you remember when you used to meditate? Do you remember how it calmed you down and helped you think clearly? Shall we try that now? Shall we chant? Help me out here, Howie. Om. Ommmm.”
Chester’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I do not need to meditate and I do not need therapy. What I’m trying to tell you—”
“I know what you’re trying to tell us, Pop,” Howie chimed in. “Those are the names of FleshCrawlers books. You’re trying to tell us . . . um, you’re trying to tell us . . . um, names of FleshCrawlers books?”
“Listen to this,” Chester said, pushing open the pages of one of the books on the chair.
“Belinda! Belinda, come back!” Tiffani-Sue called out. “You mustn’t go into that flying saucer! If you do, you will be turned into a robot!” But it was too late for Belinda, Tiffani-Sue’s belo
ved miniature poodle, the miniature poodle she had been given on her sixth birthday when her mother had been away on yet another of her many business trips, the miniature poodle that had been her best friend and companion ever since her father swam off with his scuba-diving instructor, never to return, when Tiffani-Sue was in the second grade. Now she watched in horror as Belinda was transformed into a steel-plated robot right before her very eyes! “No!” she cried out. “Not you, too, Belinda!”
Howie was blinking back tears. “I wish I could write like that,” he said with a sigh.
“And what about this?” Chester went on, pushing open the pages of a different book.
Sara-Ellen Lafferty felt something moving at the bottom of her bed. At first she was scared, but then she remembered that it was only her pet kitten, Mister Buttons. “Whew,” Sara-Ellen said to Mister Buttons, “for a moment there I thought you were one of them.”
“Who says I’m not?” Mister Buttons replied in an unfamiliar, husky voice.
Sara-Ellen reached for the flashlight her mother had left by her bed just in case she had another of those terrible nightmares. She switched it on. What she beheld made her wish that she was dreaming. But this was real—and more terrible than any nightmare Sara-Ellen had ever had. Now she watched in horror as Mister Buttons was transformed into a steel-plated demon right before her very eyes! “No!” she cried out. “Not you, too, Mister Buttons!”
“And so it goes,” said Chester. “In every book, the main character’s pet is transformed into something unspeakable!”
“Not to mention steel-plated,” I commented.
“If it’s unspeakable, then why speak of it?” Howie asked.
“Because it could happen to us, don’t you see? These so-called novels of his may be no more than thinly disguised blueprints for the horrors he actually commits!” Chester was getting more excited with each word. “Why is he staying in our house? He’s a famous author. He should be staying in a hotel, but no, he says he wants to stay here because he wants to meet the pets! He even asks for ‘quality time’ with us. What is that supposed to mean? I’ll tell you what it means. It means ‘transformation time,’ that’s what it means!”
