Джеймс Хоу - Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

Mr. and Mrs. Monroe were busy getting the house ready and worrying about having everything just right for their important visitor. Apparently they’d been given some specific—and rather puzzling—instructions.

“I’ve never known a houseguest to e-mail a list of requests before,” I heard Mr. Monroe say to his wife one day as he was making a dessert. I just happened to be in the kitchen at the time in case any assistance was needed in protecting the floor from falling ingredients.

“And such odd requests, too,” said Mrs. Monroe. “He asks for Bunnicula to stay in his room with him.”

“That’s not so odd,” Mr. Monroe said as he stirred something that was making my salivary glands salivate. “After all, he said he was interested in spending some quality time with the pets.”

“Yes, but what about this?” Mrs. Monroe went on, consulting a piece of paper. “‘Salad—without dressing—to be available at all hours. And a plate of lettuce to be placed by my bed for a midnight snack.’”

Mr. Monroe laughed. “Well, I can’t say it’s my idea of a midnight snack, but to each his own. I guess he’s just a bit eccentric.”

Or out of his mind, I could imagine Chester saying. But then who was Chester to talk? He’s been out of his mind so long he’d need a map to find his way back.

On the afternoon M. T. Graves was to arrive, I was deeply engrossed in preparations of my own when I felt a tapping on my eyelids.

“Chester?” I said. “If that’s you, stop it at once. I need my sleep.”

“You always need your sleep,” Chester replied, even while continuing his annoying habit of knocking at my eyelids to wake me up. I hate when he does this, especially when it’s been a while since his nails have been clipped.

“Yes, but I need it even more now,” I told him, being careful not to sound too alert. “It’s important to be well rested when you have guests coming.”

“This is how you’re preparing? By napping?”

I nodded, which quickly led to nodding off. Chester picked up the pace of his eyelid batting. “Well, I’ve been preparing, too,” he told me.

“Please,” I begged, “no more Venn diagrams.”

Chester snorted. “I’ve been engaged in serious research,” he said.

“You’ve been engaged in serious research for three weeks, Chester, and all we’ve learned so far is to stay away from the toaster oven. Well, it just so happens that I’ve been engaged in research, too. I was dreaming about bacon, and I was about to determine how many slices I could eat before getting a tummyache. I was up to one hundred and fourteen.”

Suddenly Chester was on top of me, playing my eyeballs like a set of drums.

“Stop!” I woofed, shaking him off and opening my poor, battered eyes. I couldn’t believe how bright the room was, considering that the sky outside was decidedly gloomy. “You didn’t happen to bring any coffee with you, did you?”

Chester glared at me. “I’m trying to be serious here, Harold,” he said.

“I just thought—”

“Yes, well, think about this,” he said. I sensed he was not about to ask if I wanted cinnamon with my cappuccino. “I did some more research on M. T. Graves last night, and I’m telling you, the guy is deranged.”

“That’s nice. It will give you something in common.”

“Go ahead, Harold. Mock, ridicule, sneer, deride, disdain...”

“Okay, okay,” I said. Chester has a fondness for the thesaurus that can be exhausting. “Why is he deranged? And please tell me your answer doesn’t involve a spreadsheet.”

“One,” Chester began, consulting the spreadsheet in his head, “his favorite fish is the piranha. When asked why, he said—and I quote—‘They are good eaters, leaving neither crumbs nor evidence behind.’ ‘Evidence,’ Harold? A curious word, don’t you think? Unless, of course, one is thinking about . . . crime!

“Two, he was raised by his grandparents because his parents were never home. Why, you may ask?”

Or not, I thought.

“Because they were spies! The only contact Graves had with them during his entire childhood was a single postcard sent from a dungeon in Bora-Bora!”

I shook my head, hoping to give the appearance of amazement while in fact merely attempting to stay awake.

“And get this,” Chester went on. “When asked how he likes to spend his free time, he replied, I enjoy baking, playing with my chemistry set, and training my bats. Oh, and I do like to have a go at sorcery from time to time.’ Sorcery, Harold! Chemistry experiments! Bat training! What more do you need to know?”

“What sorts of things does he like to bake?” I inquired.

Chester didn’t answer me. He was on a roll and there was no getting him off it. “And what about this crow of his?” he ranted. “Do we think it’s a coincidence that he’s named for Edgar Allan Poe?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Edgar Allan Poe, the greatest writer of horror fiction of all time. Poe also wrote poems. Surely you have heard of his poem ‘The Raven.’”

Before I could ask him why he was calling me Shirley, Chester narrowed his eyes and launched into a throaty recitation:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”

“I like the part about napping,” I told him. “And the tapping part reminds me of a certain someone who has a problem with a certain other someone getting his minimum daily requirement of sleep. But I can’t say I really see your point.”

“My point,” Chester snapped, “is that in the poem the visitor on the other side of the door is a raven, Harold! Which is more or less a crow. And this raven has only one thing to say.”

“Corn?” I conjectured.

“‘Nevermore,’” said Chester. “To every question, every plea, every desperate cry, the answer is always the same: ‘Nevermore.’ A word that, like the raven itself, serves as an omen foretelling a desolate descent into darkness.”

“That’s some word,” I commented as Howie raced into the room and put an end to our conversation.

“M. T. Graves will be here any minute!” he exclaimed. “How do I look?”

Chester peered at Howie through half-closed lids. “You look like a wirehaired dachshund puppy,” he said. “How do you think you look?”

“Is my hair okay?”

“No, Howie, you’d better call your stylist for an emergency trim.”

Howie began to panic. “Really, Pop? I don’t know if she can fit me in. I think it’s her afternoon to go to her shiatsu massage therapist. Or maybe she takes her Shih Tzu for a sausage hairpiece. It’s a little hard to understand what she says sometimes. I think it’s because she chews gum and she’s got that blower thing going right next to my ear and—”

“YOUR HAIR LOOKS FINE!” Chester shouted.

For the record, Howie does not have a stylist. What he has is a very active imagination.

All at once there was the most alarming racket coming from our backyard. It sounded like the caws of a thousand crows. When we ran to look out the dining room window, my speculation was confirmed. There, filling the yard like a black cloud, were more crows than I’d ever seen in one place, screeching raucously as they swooped from tree to tree. Their presence made the dark sky even darker.