Nighty-Nightmare
James Howe
Editor’s Note
The Adventure
Two Men and a Dawg
Things Are Not What They Seem
Nobody Here But Us Chickens
Nighty-Nightmare
Once Upon a Time in Transylvania
A Family Forever
Dawg Gone! (And That’s Not All)
Trail’s End
Author’s Note
Front Flap
Rear Flap
Publication Info
Version Info
To
Maureen Hayes—
Bunnicula’s friend & mine
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.
Chapter 1
The Adventure
IT 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.”