by James Howe
“It’s Bunnicula,” said Pete. “He’s turned vegetables white before, like I told you in my letter. But I sure never saw him turn a pumpkin white! That’s—”
“Astonishing,” Miles repeated, licking his lips. His eyes glowed. His face had more color.
Edgar flew to him, landing on his shoulder.
“Did you bring me here to see this?” Miles asked.
Edgar nipped his ear.
“Astonishing,” Miles said for the third time in a matter of minutes.
Now it so happens that there is such a thing as a white pumpkin. I know this because I saw it on public television. Chester isn’t the only one who learns a thing or two now and again, although I confess that technically this wasn’t research on my part. This was Mr. Monroe sitting down to watch a program and my refusing to get off the couch.
In any event, it was quite clear—as Mr. Monroe was now explaining to Miles—that this was not the kind of pumpkin that was meant to be white. For one thing, all the other pumpkins around it were orange. For another, this one wasn’t entirely white. If you looked carefully, you could see a hint of orange. And finally, there were two tiny marks on it, marks that would be easy to miss if you didn’t live in a house with a rabbit who was fond of getting his nutrients by sinking his fangs into vegetables and draining them of their juices.
When Miles bent down to look at the marks, he said, “Astonishing.”
He is a man of few words. Or in this case: one word.
We had become so distracted by all this talk about pumpkins, however, that we had forgotten about the culprit who had turned this one white.
“There he goes!” Pete called out. “We’ve got to catch him!”
There he was indeed, and off we went in pursuit of our runaway bunny. Edgar was in the lead, of course, but with his long legs Miles came in a close second.
As we were running home, it began to grow light.
“Bunnicula must sleep soon,” Chester said, panting alongside me.
“I can’t take this kind of workout first thing in the morning,” I complained. “It’s too early, my joints ache, I’m old, and I’m lazy. And what do you mean, Bunnicula must sleep soon?”
“He’s a vampire, Uncle Harold,” Howie piped up. “He can’t let the sun’s rays touch him or . . . oh, it’s too terrible to say!”
“He’s ... rounding the corner of your ... house!” we heard Miles cry out just before he himself rounded the same corner.
By the time we caught up with him, Miles was shaking his head. “We lost him,” he said. “I’m . . . sorry.”
“He can’t be far,” said Mr. Monroe. “He always goes to sleep just before daylight. Odd habit, that. I’ve never understood it. But at least we don’t have to worry about him for now. Let’s go in and have breakfast. We’ll search for him again later.”
“Promise?” Toby asked plaintively.
“Of course, son,” said Mr. Monroe. “I’m sure he’s sleeping soundly under a bush or under the house. We’ll find him.”
Needless to say, Chester had his own thoughts on the subject.
“I don’t think it’s any mystery where Bunnicula is,” Chester told Howie and me when we were out on the front porch for a post-breakfast bath and nap. I’m pleased to report that I scored two strips of bacon, a mere one hundred and twelve shy of what I feel certain I could digest without tummy troubles. “Clearly it’s all a pretense, an act, a charade, a sham ...”
“Chester” I yawned, “have you been at the thesaurus again? We get your point. Sort of. Well, actually, not at all.”
“Fine. Then try to stay awake, Harold, and I’ll explain. Obviously, Miles and Edgar—partners in crime—have Bunnicula stashed away in their room.”
“How is that obvious?” I asked. “We saw Bunnicula on the loose.”
“We did indeed, Harold. We saw him on the loose until we didn’t see him anymore. And when did we stop seeing him?”
“This is impossible to follow,” I said. “Could you make the questions multiple choice?”
Chester ignored me and went on. “We stopped seeing him after Miles and Edgar went around the corner of the house. I feel certain that he’s in the guest room in that black bag, undoubtedly in an especially deep sleep because of all the vegetable juices he’s imbibed.”
“But Pop,” said Howie, “what about the pumpkin and the vegetables in the kitchen?”
“And seeing him before we stopped seeing him,” I put in.
“Oh, he got out. They were counting on that. But then Miles caught him, don’t you understand? He caught him, and hid him under his cape, and took him back up to his room.”
“But why? Why would they do it?” My head was starting to hurt.
“They have plans for him, Harold. They wanted to see if he was as unusual as Pete’s letter made him out to be. That’s why Miles asked for undressed salad to be available at all times and for Bunnicula to be placed in his room.”
Howie began giggling.
“What is so funny?” Chester asked.
“Undressed salad,” Howie said, and the giggling got louder.
Chester heaved a sigh, shook his head, and continued. “Bunnicula, enticed by the lettuce on the night table, got out of his cage, drained the greens, and then—his unnatural appetite whetted—slipped out the door to go down to the kitchen and from there to the garden down the street. Edgar followed him—undoubtedly with the help of the head crow and the gang of varmints in the backyard—and then returned to wait for Miles. And now they have him in that black bag, right where they want him, and what they’re going to do with him is anybody’s guess. But I’ll tell you this: Whatever else is in that bag—it’s not meant for anything good.”
It all sounded a little crazy, but then I thought back to everything that had happened. And I began to wonder: Were we really harboring a madman—and a no-good crow—under our roof? Was Bunnicula in danger of being transformed into some kind of steel-plated monster? And would I ever have a conversation with Chester that didn’t end up giving me a headache?
It was too much to think about. I did the only thing a dog could do under the circumstances. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep.
EIGHT
Too Late?
I managed to get about two-thirds of my normal morning naptime in before the tapping started.
“Chester,” I mumbled, “get off my eyeballs.”
“Then wake up, Harold. This is urgent.”
Recalling our last conversation and thinking that Bunnicula might indeed be in the black bag in the guest room, I forced my eyes open.
“People are going to arrive soon, Harold. We have to act fast. Toby and Mrs. Monroe are out looking for Bunnicula, not that they’re going to find him. And Mr. Monroe is in the kitchen making lunch.”
“Does he need help?” I asked, suddenly wide awake. “Is that what’s urgent?” There was the smell of pot roast in the air. The urgent smell of pot roast.
“No, he does not need help,” Chester said emphatically. “Now pay attention. Pete’s up in his room doing who knows what, and Howie’s in there doing who knows what with him. The point is, the coast was finally clear, so I stationed myself outside the guest room, and you will not believe what I heard! Bunnicula’s in danger, Harold. Real and immediate danger.”
The hairs began to rise along my back. “What makes you think so?”
“I heard Miles say to Edgar, ‘He doesn’t have to remain a rabbit. I could turn him into a bat, like the others.’ The others, Harold! There have been others before Bunnicula! And then he said, ‘Yes, I’ll do it!’ And then he said, ‘Edgar, what would I do without you?’”
“So Edgar really is his right-hand bird,” I commented.
Chester narrowed his eyes and nodded knowingly. “I told you that crow was no good.”
“But he hasn’t said ‘nevermore,’” I pointed out.
“When he gets his voice back, he will, Harold. But we’ve got to stop him before he does. We’ve got to st
op them both!”
“But how? What can we do?”
“We have to break into the room. Right away, before it’s too late. Follow me.”
I gulped. We could get into serious trouble, breaking into the guest room. But I was convinced we had no choice.
As we climbed the stairs I was haunted by several thoughts:
1. Bunnicula might already have been turned into a bat.
2. I, too, might be turned into a bat.
3. That pot roast sure smells good.
When we got to the guest room door, it was wide open. Chester and I poked our heads in.
“There’s no one here,” I observed.
“No one except Bunnicula,” Chester said.
“Bunnicula? Where? I don’t see him.”
Chester nodded in the direction of the black bag sitting on the bed. “I’ll try to set him free, while you stand guard,” he said. “Hopefully, the transformation hasn’t already taken place.”
I have to admit I was rather touched by Chester’s new protectiveness toward Bunnicula. For years he had tried to destroy the bunny, believing he was a vampire. But then, after saving Bunnicula from a near-death experience, Chester changed his tune. He still thinks Bunnicula is a vampire, but he has become his friend and protector. “After all,” he reasons, “Bunnicula only attacks vegetables. What’s the harm in that?”
I cannot tell you how many times in the past I had said those very same words to Chester. But Chester has to come to things in his own time, in his own way, before he’ll believe them to be true.
“Are you standing guard?” he asked.
“Standing guard,” I replied as he jumped up on the bed.
My eyes and ears were open to the prospect of Miles’s or Edgar’s return from wherever they’d gone. But it was not my eyes or ears that tipped me off to trouble. It was my nose. Being a dog, I have a finely tuned sense of smell, and I admit that it was fully engaged with the pleasurable scent of pot roast wafting up from the kitchen. So fully engaged, in fact, that at first I didn’t notice the other odor coming from the opposite direction. When I did smell it, it set off an alarm in my brain at once.
“Chester!” I cried. “We may be too late!”
Chester looked up abruptly from where he was hunched over Miles’s black bag. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I’ve almost got this clasp open!”
“But I don’t think Bunnicula is in there,” I told him. “I think he’s in another room, being transformed into a bat this very minute! Can’t you smell it?”
Chester lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “You’re right!” he gasped. “That does smell like a bunny being transformed into a bat!”
He jumped down from the bed and cried, “Let’s go!”
We charged down the hall and came to an abrupt halt in front of Pete’s bedroom. My eyes filled with tears, but whether that was because of the incredible stench emanating from the other side of the door or the thought of what was happening to Bunnicula, I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that there was a very good chance we were too late. We had to get inside.
I began pawing at the door as Chester meowed for all he was worth.
Howie yipped from the other side.
Pete called out, “Go away!”
I couldn’t believe it. Miles had turned his two biggest fans into unwitting accomplices. How had he done it? Had he convinced them that this was nothing more than a magic trick, easily undone, when the truth was that Bunnicula would be transformed into a bat forever?!
I pawed harder and, despite my distaste for it, began to bark.
Mr. Monroe called up the stairs, “Pete! What’s going on up there? Your mother and Toby aren’t back yet, and someone’s knocking at the door. Would you please answer it? My hands are covered with flour. What is that smell? And Harold, why are you barking? Pete, do you hear me?”
Pete’s bedroom door flew open. “I hear you, I hear you!” he shouted as he flew past us and down the stairs.
Chester and I looked inside his room and gasped at what we saw. There, with his back to us, was Miles Tanner, hunched over Pete’s desk. As usual, Edgar sat on his shoulder. And on the bed behind them lay a bat, its wings spread open.
Chester saw it at the same time I did and came to the same sorrowful conclusion.
“Dead,” he pronounced solemnly. “The experiment was a failure.”
“Oh, Bunnicula,” I moaned. “We were too late.”
“We’ve got to show Mr. Monroe,” Chester said. “Grab him, Harold.”
“Grab who?” I asked. “Miles? Edgar?”
“Bunnicula, of course!”
“But... he’s a bat. A dead bat.”
“I’m aware of that. Now just grab him and run to the kitchen. Maybe there’s still life in him. Maybe Mr. Monroe can call the vet. Maybe . . . maybe ...”
I saw the look of desperation in Chester’s eyes. What was the point of telling him how hopeless it was?
I ran to Pete’s bed and grabbed the bat that was once Bunnicula.
Edgar flew at us, flapping his wings and snapping his beak. Miles jumped up, knocking over whatever it was that was on Pete’s desk.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You startled us! And now look at this mess!”
I ran out of the room, Bunnicula tight in my jaws, and headed toward the stairs, where I collided with Pete and Kyle, who were on their way up.
“Where are you going?” Pete asked. “Hey!”
“Hey,” said Kyle, “why does Harold have your old rubber bat in his mouth? Am I too late for the experiment? Did you get the volcano to work? I can’t believe you got M. T. Graves to help you with your science homework! That is so cool. What’s that smell? Is that the volcano? It’s not what we’re having for lunch, is it? It’s gross. How come your cat is always washing his tail? You have really weird pets. Hey, do you think Mr. Tanner would want to meet my pets? They’re not as weird as yours, but...”
Kyle’s voice trailed off as the boys disappeared into Pete’s room, and I spat out the rubber bat and looked for Chester. He was sitting as far down the hall as possible. I don’t think I need to tell you what he was doing.
“That must be the cleanest tail in town,” I remarked.
He took his time answering. “A slight misjudgment. A wee misinterpretation of the data. Not that I blame you, Harold.”
“Blame me?” I cried. “But you’re the one who—”
“Harold, Harold” Chester said. “Let’s not play the blame game, shall we? The important thing is that the transformation has not taken place. Yet. We can still stop it in time. What we need is a plan.”
“Oh, no,” I said with a shudder. “Not another plan.” Chester’s plans have a way of—how shall I put this?—not working out.
There was a knock on the front door.
“Coming!” Mr. Monroe shouted from the kitchen. “Pete, Kyle, Miles, our guests are starting to arrive! I hope your mother and Toby get back soon! Pete, please come down here!”
“Just a minute, Dad!” Pete called back. “We’re cleaning up! The animals messed up our experiment!”
“I’ve got it!” Chester said. “But we must act quickly!”
“Chester, does this involve any more rubber animals? Because I’ve got to tell you, the taste of latex lingers.”
Chester snorted. “No rubber animals,” he said. “Now here’s the plan.” And he whispered it in my ear.
“You want me to do what?” I blurted when Chester was through telling me.
“Sshh!”
“But . . . but that could hurt Bunnicula. It could kill him! I thought this was about saving him!”
“Don’t worry,” Chester said. “He’s sound asleep. He’ll be so relaxed he won’t feel a thing. Now, go quickly, before Miles notices.”
Did you ever find yourself doing something that, even while you’re doing it, you’re asking yourself, “How did I get myself into this? Have I lost my mind?” Well, this was one of those moments. Of course, I have a lot of th
ose moments, living with Chester. But this was one of the craziest ever. There I was, hiding in the closet in the guest bedroom, clutching Miles Tanner’s precious black bag in my teeth, waiting for a signal from Chester to make a mad dash and . . . oh, I couldn’t bring myself to think about the last part.
“Bunnicula,” I whispered, “if you’re in there, please forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
I heard the sound of footsteps as Miles and Pete and Kyle passed quickly by the open guest room door and down the stairs. I heard the flapping of Edgar’s wings. I heard the front door open and a woman’s voice saying, “Hello, I hope we’re not early.” I heard the timer go off in the kitchen. I heard Mr. Monroe call out, “Pete, please make our guests comfortable. I’ll be right there!”
And then I heard Chester say, “This is it, Harold. Go!”
NINE
The Truth About Edgar and Miles
My heart was racing as I burst out of the closet, dashed to the top of the stairs, and with a snap of my head flung the bag into the air and on its way to the entrance hall below! Watching it bounce down the steps, I could only pray that Bunnicula would remain asleep inside, so that he would be limp and not get hurt. Seeing the bag that was heading straight toward her, Ms. Pickles screamed as some other woman I didn’t know jumped back, twisted her heel, and fell into the arms of the man behind her. Catching her, the man dropped a tray of cookies, which landed with a clatter. The noise made Howie howl, which made Mr. Monroe run into the room, which made Howie run out of the room, which made Mr. Monroe trip over Howie, which made the platter of crackers and cheese he was carrying go flying. The black bag landed with a thud at the bottom of the stairs, spewing its contents out into the room. I strained to see if Bunnicula was safe, but all I could make out were peoples’ legs going wild trying not to step on cookies or crackers or cheese or whatever had spilled out of the bag. Miles covered his ashen face and shouted, “Nooo!” as Edgar took off from his shoulder and began circling the house, opening and closing his beak in soundless frenzy. As if they could hear him, the crows in the yards began to screech a discordant chorus, and at that moment. . .
