Джеймс Хоу - Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

“‘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 beloved 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!”

“Now, Chester,” I said. “I think you’re getting a little carried—”

“You want proof, Harold? Is that what you want?”

“I’d rather have a sandwich,” I told him. I’m always a little peckish around midnight.

Chester grabbed another book.

“Not again,” I mumbled.

“Fine, I won’t read it,’ Chester said. “The writing is garbage, anyway.”

Howie gasped at this literary assessment.

“Don’t Go in the Yard,” Chester went on. “Know it, Howie?”

“Know it? It’s a classic!”

“And do you remember what’s in the yard?”

“Grass?” Howie guessed. “Buried bones?”

“Think, Howie.”

“Oh, right. Birds. Wait, not just any birds. Crows!”

“That’s right, Howie. Crows. Bad crows. Not nice crows. Really mean crows. And who, I wonder, do those bad, not nice, really mean crows go after? Surely not Skippy Sapworthy.”

Howie thought for a moment. And then a shiver went through him. “No,” he said, “you’re right, Pop. It isn’t Skippy Sapworthy. It’s his dog, Binky-Boy. He’s transformed into a scarecrow!”

“The pets,” Chester intoned. “It’s always the pets.”

THREE

Suddenly There Came a Tapping

The next three weeks passed uneventfully, unless you want to count Chester’s chronic state of hysteria as an event. I will spare you the details, because to be honest, I couldn’t bear having to relive them myself. Suffice it to say that he spent the wee hours of many a night at Mr. Monroe’s computer doing what he insisted on calling “research,” creating pie charts and spreadsheets on such topics as “The Different Methods Used in the Flesh-Crawlers Series to Transform Household Pets into Unspeakable Monstrosities” and “Common Denominators Among Crows, Authors of Juvenile Horror Fiction, and Kitchen Appliances.” I never really understood that one. I think it had something to do with the “fact” (Chester’s word) that most of the household pets in the FleshCrawlers books were transformed into unspeakable monstrosities with the aid of kitchen appliances.

By the time our guests were to arrive, Chester was so tightly strung you could have used him to hang out laundry. I’m not sure how he thought his “research” was going to be of any help, but he insisted it was crucial preparation.

The other members of the household were busy preparing as well. Every day Pete came home from school with reports of all that was being done to get ready for the famous author’s visit. He also reported that no one was making fun of him any longer for liking M. T. Graves. From the way he told it, winning this contest had turned him into some kind of hero. Of course, Pete often talks about himself in heroic terms, so it was hard to know if what he was saying was true or not. Kyle was back to being Pete’s best friend and had even made the welcome banner for our front yard. Pete and Toby were rereading the entire FleshCrawlers series, which had Howie running back and forth between their rooms, trying to keep up.