“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.
I saw that Chester’s eyes were closed. It wasn’t the sun; it was the effect of being called “Pop” by a dog. After all this time, he still wasn’t used to it.
To keep the conversation moving, I asked, “Where do you think stories come from, Howie?”
“Big buildings,” he said simply.
Even Chester had to open his eyes for this one.
“Don’t you remember,” Howie explained, “when we went to the vet two weeks ago, and we were all in the car, and Toby asked his father how many stories were in that new building downtown, and Mr. Monroe said fifteen, and there were five in the bank building, and seven in the insurance building and—”
“You’re wanted on the telephone,” Chester said.
“Really?” said Howie.
“Yes. Hurry inside. It’s important.”
Howie didn’t say another word but padded off quickly on his little dachshund legs through the back door into the kitchen.
Chester must have seen my look, because he said right away, “Spare me the lecture on cruelty to children, Harold. If I hadn’t found a way to stop him, he’d have gone on forever. And we don’t have forever. We have to talk about this camping trip the Monroes are planning.”
“It’s nice you’re so worried about them, Chester, but—”
“It’s not them I’m worried about. It’s us. They’re taking us with them, Harold. Thanks to you and your little heart-to-heart with Mr. Monroe.”
“I couldn’t help it,” I said. “I pictured us all around the campfire, toasting marshmallows, singing songs. ‘Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, someone’s in the kitchen, I know-oh-oh-oh. Someone’s in the kitchen with Di-nah—’ ”
“Listen, Harold,” Chester said, just as I was getting to the part about the banjo, “while someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, have you thought about who’s in the woods with us?”
“What do you mean?”
“The woods are full of spirits.”
“What woods?”
“Any woods. They’re dark places, Harold, harboring evil creatures who prey on the innocent.”
“Do the Boy Scouts know about this?” I asked.
Chester ignored me and went on. “This time of year is the worst. ‘The fifth of May is Saint George’s Day. When midnight tolls, the devil has sway.’ ”
“That’s pretty good,” I said. “I wrote a poem once.”
“I didn’t write that. I read it in a book.”
“Oh-oh.”
“I’m serious, Harold. This camping trip can only mean trouble.”
Just then, the screen door squeaked open, and Howie popped out. “Boy, this camping trip is going to be fun,” he said, running toward us. “You should see all the neat stuff they’re doing in there, Uncle Harold. First Pete was showing his father how to sharpen his knife, and now he’s teaching him first aid. It’s lucky Mr. Monroe is right-handed.”
“The first blood,” Chester muttered.
“What’d you say, Pop?”
“Chester didn’t say anything,” I said. “Who called?”
“What?”
“Who wanted you on the phone?”
“Oh, nobody important. Just one of those surveys. They wanted to know which dog food I like best.”
Chester’s eyes widened. “I worry about you sometimes,” he said to Howie, and he walked away. I knew what he meant. The Monroes don’t have a telephone at the cabin.
Howie went off to play, and I went around to the front of the house to find some sun. I settled in on the front porch, napping for the next hour or so. Chester’s worries were the furthest thing from my mind, and I probably wouldn’t have thought of them again at all if it hadn’t been for the newspaper Mrs. Monroe brought back with her from the store. As she was opening the door to the cabin, the paper fell out of her bag and landed a few inches from my nose.
It wasn’t the headline that caught my eye. It was the date: May 4.
We would be in the woods at midnight. Midnight of Saint George’s Day.
Chapter 2
Two Men and a Dawg
SOMEHOW, DESPITE Mr. Monroe’s bumbling and Chester’s mumbling, we managed to get on our way by about four o’clock that afternoon. I know the time because that’s when my stomach alarm goes off to remind me I have two hours until my next meal. In case I get distracted, a second alarm goes off around five so I can begin panicking. That day, however, I decided to start my panicking a little early. On a camping trip, I had no idea when I’d be fed. As it turned out I didn’t have to worry about it. But my panicking wasn’t in vain. It was good practice for everything that happened later.