Джеймс Хоу - Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

Howie’s eyes grew as wide as water bowls. “Don’t go in the yard,” I heard him mutter as the Monroes came running in.

“What’s going on?” Toby asked. I felt his hand reach for the top of my head.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Mr. Monroe.

The din outside was so deafening we didn’t even hear the other alarming noise at first. Who knows how long it had been going on?

Then it seemed we all heard it at the same time, turning as one and staring wide-eyed at the front door. From the other side of the door, there came a tapping.

“We should answer it,” said Mrs. Monroe.

But no one moved.

FOUR

A Fine Murder of Crows

“It’s M. T. Graves,’ Pete said at last. “I’ll get it.” He was trying to sound brave, but the tremor in his voice gave him away.

“Yes,” Mrs. Monroe said, looking a little dazed. “M. T. Graves. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”

The tapping grew more urgent as Pete made his way to the door. He reached for the handle and slowly began to turn it. The shrieking of the crows and the beating of their frantic wings—not to mention Howie’s rapid-fire panting next to me—provided an eerie soundtrack.

The handle turned. The latch clicked. The door creaked open.

And there on the other side stood .. . Kyle.

“What took you so long? Is he here yet? When are you going to get your doorbell fixed? What’s up with all the crows in your backyard? Oh, hi, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe. What’s everybody staring at? Why does Howie look like he’s going to pass out? Did you know your cat’s eyes are bugging out of his head? So, is M. T. Graves here or what?”

Kyle likes to talk.

Pete opened his mouth to answer his friend when he suddenly fell speechless. We all did. Even Howie stopped his panting. For there, behind Kyle, loomed a tall—a very tall—figure in black. Black pupils stared down at us from eyes that bulged beneath bushy black eyebrows. Long black hair fell on either side of an ashen white face to meet a black cape that was draped around stooped shoulders. On one of those shoulders sat a large black bird, who regarded us with bright, unblinking eyes.

“That’s a . . . fine . . . murder ... of crows,” the gigantic figure said in a low voice that stopped and started and rumbled like distant thunder.

“A m-m-murder of crows, did you say?” Mrs. Monroe sputtered. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never heard Mrs. Monroe sputter. She’s a lawyer. Lawyers don’t sputter.

“A flock of crows is also called a ‘murder,’” Mr. Monroe explained. “Isn’t that right?”

The tall, spooky-looking man nodded as Chester muttered, “Interesting choice of words.”

“Please come in,” said Mrs. Monroe, now sputter-free. “Forgive our lack of manners. This racket is unnerving.”

Kyle tilted his head back in order to gaze up at the stranger who was entering the house. “Are you M. T. Graves?” he asked. “Is that the real Edgar Allan Crow up there? He won’t peck out my eyes, will he? Did you notice the welcome sign out front? I made it. I’m sorry it’s not better. I’m not very good at art stuff. I’m Kyle. I don’t live here.”

“Hello, Kyle,” the tall man rumbled. Turning to Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, he asked, “May I. .. sit?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Monroe. “You’ve had a long trip. Do you have any bags?”

Lowering himself with a heavy sigh into Chester’s chair (well, the chair that Chester calls his), the man in black waved vaguely toward the front door. “They’re ... in the car,” he said. “Might I have a glass of ... water?”

“I’ll get it!” Pete volunteered.

He was out of the room and back with a glass of water before you could say, “Behold the powers of darkness.” Unless of course you were Chester, in which case you could say it twice.

“Here you go, Mr. Graves,” said Pete.

“It’s Tanner,” said the stranger, offering his companion a few sips before downing the remainder of the glass in a single swallow.

“But I thought—”

“M. T. Graves is my nom de plume.”

“Your what?” Kyle asked.

“My pen name, the name I use for writing. My real name is Miles Tanner.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’m Pete. And this is my mom and dad. And you met Kyle, and that runt over there is Toby.”

“Hey!”

“Well, you are!”

“Boys!”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Oh, and these are our pets. You want to meet them, right? Because you said in your letter ...”

Scowling, Miles Tanner clenched his hands into fists and pulled himself back into the chair. It wasn’t quite the enthusiastic greeting I was expecting. “Yes ... certainly . .. but perhaps another—”

Pete grabbed my collar and dragged me over to the brown velvet armchair. “This is Harold,” he told the author. “Be careful he doesn’t drool on you.”

Before I could register a complaint, Pete went on, “And that’s Chester. Watch out for him. He’s totally ...” He put his finger near his ear and made a circular motion.

Chester hissed.

“See?” Pete said.

Howie couldn’t stand it any longer. He began yipping a mile a minute. Loosely translated, his yips went something like this: Hey! What about me? I’m your biggest fan in the entire universe! I’ve read every one of your books! Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb is the best book in the entire universe! I want to be just like you when I grow up! Don’t you think I’d make an excellent character for one of your books? Aren’t I cute? Hey! What about me?

Miles Tanner’s only response to Howie’s tirade was to cover his ears and say, “Make him stop . . . please.”

Crushed, Howie stopped yipping immediately.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Monroe. “He’s a puppy. He’s easily excited.”

“That’s Howie for you,” said Pete. “I’ll bet he was barking at Edgar. He’s got this thing about crows.”

“Pete,” said Mr. Monroe, “why don’t you take the animals out of the room for a few minutes ? Let’s give our guest a chance to catch his breath.”

“Well, I never!” Chester exclaimed after Pete had unceremoniously dumped us in the kitchen. “‘Take the animals out of the room’? Ex-cu-u-u-use me!”

“M. T. Graves hates me,” Howie moaned. “Why did I have to yip so much? And why did Pete have to say I was barking at Edgar?”

“I’m telling you,” Chester said, “there is something wrong with this picture. We’ve got to find out what it is.”

“What are you talking about now?” I asked.

“What am I talking about now? What am I talking about now ? What am I talking about now? What am I talking—”

“I believe that was the question.”

“What I’m talking about is, this is the man who is supposed to love animals so much. But look at him! He couldn’t care less—except for that weird bird on his shoulder. What a creepy twosome they make! I’m telling you, he just wants to use us, Harold. We’ve got to be on our toes the whole time he’s in this house, do you understand?”

“I can’t be on my toes the whole time, Pop,” Howie whined. “I’ll tip over.”

Chester grimaced. “Why do I waste my . . . wait a minute, we’re wasting time right now! Follow me.”

Against my better judgment, I followed Chester out of the kitchen and down the hall to where we were within earshot of the conversation going on in the living room.

“And tomorrow we’re planning a lunch in your honor,” Mrs. Monroe was saying. “There will be a few guests. The principal. Pete’s English teacher, of course. The librarian.”