“Bella and her baby rabbit escaped through an open window. We don’t know what happened to Bella, but we know of course what became of the little one without a name.”
“He came to live with a family called the Monroes,” I said. “And they named him Bunnicula.”
“Right.”
“And The House of Dr.E.A.D.?” I asked.
Chester turned his head toward the house in the clearing. Three sets of eyes followed his. “You’re looking at it,” he said. “Fritz and Hans live there still, under other names, no doubt. Erda, though she is no longer called that, is their housekeeper. And somewhere, high in a tower room, there is a laboratory, the mirror image of one in Kasha-Varnishkes. The Transylvania twins will one day continue the experiments begun by their adopted father. They are waiting, waiting for Bunnicula.”
The night was still. No one spoke for the longest time. Then, Howie said, “A hare-raising tale, Pop.”
Dawg started to chuckle, but his chuckle turned quickly to a snort, and the snort into a snore. He was sound asleep. Moments later, Howie was sleeping too.
“Now’s our chance,” Chester said. “If we’re not too late, we may still be able to save the Monroes.”
And those were the last words I heard.
Chapter 8
Dawg Gone!
(And That’s Not All)
HOW WE MANAGED to sleep that night I will never know. It may have been from sheer exhaustion, or perhaps it was the terror instilled in us by Chester’s words, but no sooner had he finished his story than sleep moved in quickly and efficiently, like a thief in the night, to rob us of our wakefulness. Even Chester slept, although he confessed to me when he woke that he had not slept easily.
I knew what he meant. I have never had such nightmares.
In one, I was lost in a woods. From all around me, I heard rustling, scampering, someone—or something—moving about. Every time I ran toward the sounds, they would disappear and start again from another part of the forest. I ran and ran, first toward them, then away, never knowing who or what was making them, always frightened they would find me before I could find them.
It was a different sound that woke me shortly before dawn—the sound of rain. I listened for a time to its patter on the leaves above me, my brain too foggy to make sense of where I was or why I should be afraid. I just knew that I was getting wet, and that I was afraid.
“What a night,” I heard Chester say beside me. “They were all around us, Harold.”
“Who?” I said, yawning loudly.
“The spirits. Didn’t you hear them?”
I thought for a moment. “I heard sounds,” I said. “Do you mean they could have been—”
“Of course,” said Chester. “ ‘The fifth of May is Saint George’s Day. When midnight tolls, the devil has sway.’ ”
“And while the cat’s asleep, the dog runs away,” I added.
“What do you mean?”
I nodded toward the spot where Howie and Dawg had fallen asleep the night before. Howie was opening his eyes. He was alone.
“Dawg gone!” he exclaimed.
“Just as I thought,” said Chester. “He merely pretended to sleep. Oh, what fools we’ve been. Why couldn’t we have stayed awake!”
“What is it, Pop?” Howie asked, quickly on his feet and at our side. “Did Dawg do something wrong?”
“Not in your eyes, certainly,” Chester replied. He too was on his feet now, pacing nervously. “It all fits into place, just as I suspected. Harold, get up.”
I stretched lazily. “Do I have to?” I asked.
“Do you ever want to see your family again?” he retorted. “Alive?”
I bounded to my feet. “Is it Bud and Spud?” I asked nervously. “Have they done something to the Monroes?”
Howie started to sniffle. “Maybe they know about Bunnicula,” he said. “Maybe they’ve kidnapped the Monroes to force them to give back Bunnicula!”
“I think you’re confusing things,” I told Howie. “It was Fritz and Hans who wanted Bunnicula, not Bud and Spud. Besides, that story was make-believe.”
“Hah!” “Hah!” Chester snorted. “Woe unto you who believeth not.”
“On the contrary,” I said. “Woe unto me who has believethed you too many times. How could that story be real, Chester? And where did you hear it in the first place?”
Chester paused long enough to bathe a paw. An evasive tactic, if ever I’d seen one. “My sources are confidential,” he said at last. It was my turn to snort. “Besides, that story doesn’t matter right now. What matters is the fate of the Monroes. I believe that Bud and Spud and Dawg were the evil spirits in these woods last night. I believe that Dawg purposely got us lost and wore us out so we’d be out of his masters’ way all night. I believe that Bud and Spud had harmful intentions regarding the Monroes. I believe we may be too late.”
“And woe until you who believeth not, Uncle Harold,” said Howie, beginning to cry in earnest.
I confess I felt my own eyes dampening. “I hope for all our sakes that you’re wrong, Chester,” I said. “Otherwise, we’ll … we’ll be orphans. And I’m too old to be an orphan!”
“We have to get back to camp, Harold,” Chester said. “Now!”
“There’s only one problem,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s pouring.” The drenched leaves above our heads were no longer protecting us. Even though I’ve never cared for the smell of wet dog hair, it wasn’t that that concerned me as much as the difficulty of tracking in the rain. “If Dawg went back to camp,” I told Chester, “I would ordinarily be able to follow his scent. But I’m afraid this fresh rain has wiped out that possibility.”
“Rats,” Chester muttered. “Well, we’ll just have to find our way back as best we can.”
We were all set to start out when Howie cried, “Look, Uncle Harold! Look, Pop! He’s back!”
There, winding his way through the trees in our direction, was Dawg.
“DID YOU HEAR all the commotion?” he asked when he reached us. “I tried to follow it, but the ground was too wet and I lost the trail. Boy, the rain’s been coming down for hours. You guys woulda slept through anything.”
“And probably did,” said Chester, under his breath. “You been up long, Dawg?” he asked.
“A couple hours. Chester, did you know you whistle when you sleep?”
Seeing the look in Chester’s eye, I jumped in before he could respond. “Uh, the longer we stand here,” I pointed out, “the wetter we get. How about taking us back to camp, Dawg?”
“That’s just what I was going to do,” said Dawg. “I was about to wake you, but then I heard the noise and took off after it. Like I say, I lost it.”
Chester regarded Dawg suspiciously. “Have you lost your memory concerning the whereabouts of camp as well?”
“Nah. It’s just down through the woods apiece. You fellas all set to head back?”
“How interesting,” said Chester, “that you know the way so clearly this morning when you couldn’t have found it last night to save your life. Or anybody else’s.”
Dawg gave Chester a puzzled look. “I wasn’t trying to find camp last night,” he said. “I was trying to find the house. I got lost. Don’t you believe me?”
Chester said nothing.
Dawg’s puzzled look was replaced by one of admiration. “You know, Chester,” he said, “that was some story you told last night. It really scared me. I mean it put me to sleep and all. But did I have dreams!” The scar on his jowl glistened as he turned to lead us back to camp.
Dreams played on my mind as I followed along. We had all heard sounds in the night. Were they real or were they nightmares? Were Chester’s fears just dreams of an over-vivid imagination, or was it possible that the spirit of evil was a reality with different names—and three of those names were Bud, Spud and Dawg?