Дебора Хоу - The Celery Stalks At Midnight

“Don’t forget which movie,” Chester interjected.

“ Dracula ,” I conceded, “but that doesn’t mean—”

“Nonsense. In this case, everything means something. Don’t you think it’s significant that shortly after Bunnicula’s arrival the vegetables in the kitchen started turning white? And wasn’t it strange that they did so during the night, the only time Bunnicula wasn’t asleep? Wasn’t it stranger still that he could get out of his cage by his own powers? Without even undoing the lock? And what about those marks found in the drained vegetables? Two tiny holes that matched up perfectly with the rabbit’s oddly-spaced teeth … or should I say, fangs?”

“I know, I know,” I said impatiently. “We’ve been through all this before. But I’m still not convinced—”

“Nothing will ever convince you, Harold. I wouldn’t be surprised if that bunny’s got you in his powers. Listen, Howie …”

“Yes, Pop?”

Chester rolled his eyes and went on. “You can’t listen to Harold on this one. He’s too much of a goody-two-shoes. And the Monroes … well, what can I say? People are, alas, people, and, as such, woefully in the dark much of the time. They never had a clue what was going on. I was on the verge of destroying the vampire bunny once and for all, saving this town and all its inhabitants from his evil clutches, when the Monroes whisked him off to the vet and got him put on a liquid diet. Since then, he’s had no need to suck the juices out of vegetables. A blender does all the work for him. Modern technology has once again saved the day. But …” and here Chester furrowed his brow ominously, “you can take the rabbit out of the vampire, but you can’t take the vampire out of the rabbit.”

“Huh?” I inquired.

“I don’t get it,” Howie said, scratching behind his ear with his back paw.

“You can take the—oh, never mind. What I’m trying to say is that I still believe if, for any reason, Bunnicula were deprived of his liquified vegetables, or had the opportunity to run away, he’d be back to his old tricks in no time.”

Howie was so aroused by Chester’s story he was panting slightly. “Wow,” he said, trying to catch his breath, “and all this time I thought he was just a nice little bunny.”

“He is a nice little bunny,” I asserted, feeling the need to defend my friend. “Don’t listen to Chester.”

“Don’t listen to Harold.”

“Chester,” I said.

“Harold.”

“Pop, Uncle Harold,” Howie barked. “Stop arguing. You’re confusing me. I think I’d better run out and chase a car to clear my mind. Excuse me.”

Howie started down the steps when Mrs. Monroe appeared at the door.

“Hello, boys,” she said warmly. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to. Howie, come back here. I’ve told you not to run out into the street.”

“Rats,” Howie muttered under his breath. He turned his face up toward the door and began whimpering.

“Now, that won’t do you any good. Come on,” she said, “it’s getting late. Time to come in for the night. We’re all going to bed.”

Howie and I, being the obedient dog-types that we are, started for the door. Chester, a cat, lingered on his comic book, looking up at Mrs. Monroe with singular disinterest. She went over and picked him up. “Let’s go, you little cutie,” she cooed. “Sleepy-time.”

Chester grimaced. “ ‘Little cutie,’ ‘sleepy-time,’ good grief,” I heard him mumble.

We entered the living room to find Toby and Pete, the Monroes’ two sons, staring into the television set as if they’d been hypnotized. I went over to Toby’s side to see what it was all about.

“Gotcha!” Toby yelled suddenly, making me jump.

Pete bounced and twitched all over the floor as he frantically turned some dials back and forth and little blobs of light darted all over the screen. Weird noises—squawks and beeps and screeches—emanated from inside the television.

“I think our TV’s possessed,” I whispered to Chester, who’d jumped down from Mrs. Monroe’s arms to join us.

“Don’t panic, Harold,” he reassured me. “I’ll take care of it.”

Slowly, he skulked across the floor, his eyes never straying from the flecks of light that dashed about maniacally on the screen. Every time two of them collided, another hideous screech was heard. When that happened, Chester’s head jerked, his eyes widened, and a little more hair shot up along his back.

Suddenly, he pounced. With his paws racing madly across the screen, he tried to catch the screaming specks of light.

“Chester!” Pete yelled. “Get out of the way.”

“Yeah, Chester,” Toby joined in. “Come on, you’re ruining the game!” I was a little surprised at Toby, who was usually more patient than his brother. He now seemed as transformed as Pete by this strange new enterprise of theirs.

“All right, boys,” Mrs. Monroe said, touching them lightly on the tops of their heads, “that’s enough Star-Thrower for tonight.”

“Star- Eater , Mom!”

“Yeah, Mom. Jeez.”

“Star-Thrower, Star-Eater, whatever. It’s time to call it quits and get to bed. Toby, you want time to sit up and read, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Toby said. “Chester!” Chester was still busy trying to catch the elusive stars. “Just one more game, Mom. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. Robert.”

Mr. Monroe put down the book he was reading in a chair nearby. “You boys have a big day tomorrow,” he said. “I think you’d better get some sleep. You heard your mother—no more Star-Catcher.”

“Star-Eater, dear,” Mrs. Monroe said. “I’m going to count to three. One, two …”

“Okay, okay,” Pete said, and with a click the stars disappeared from the television sky. Chester, his front paws still stretched out on the screen, looked dazed.

“Everybody to bed. Now.”

“Okay, we’re going.” The boys started up the stairs.

I planned to follow when suddenly I noticed Howie run up to Chester and whisper excitedly.

“Pop! Pop!”

Chester kept blinking his eyes at the television as if trying to figure out what had happened.

“What, kid?”

“Pop, what you said about Bunnicula. Your warning …”

“What about it?”

I glanced over to the rabbit’s cage.

“Chester!” I gasped.

Chester dropped down and looked at us. “What’s the matter with you two?”

Howie, barely able to contain himself, blurted out, “The rabbit’s gone! Look, he’s not in his cage!”

With a start, Chester looked at the empty cage sitting on the table by the window.

“Where do you suppose he is?” I asked.

“Quick,” Chester commanded, “to the kitchen!”

“Where are you off to in such a rush?” Mrs. Monroe asked as we brushed by her legs. “You were just fed. I’m afraid no more food has miraculously reappeared in your dishes.”

That’s too bad, I thought, as we tumbled through the swinging kitchen door and skidded to a halt on the linoleum inside.

All was quiet. The refrigerator door was closed. A bowl of fruit sat undisturbed on the kitchen table. We listened attentively for breathing, or hopping, or whatever noises rabbits make when they’ve run away. There wasn’t a sound.

“Gee, Pop, he’s not here,” Howie said.

Chester looked wildly about, his mind clicking away all the while. “We’ve got to warn the Monroes,” he said at last. “Come on.”

We dashed back into the living room. The boys had already gone upstairs, and my thoughts strayed to Toby, who was no doubt already settling into bed with his latest book and an array of snacks. If I didn’t hurry to help him out, he’d be forced to eat them all by himself. I headed for the stairs. Chester grabbed me by the tail.