Дебора Хоу - The Celery Stalks At Midnight

The Celery Stalks at Midnight

James Howe

Editor’s Note

The Disappearance

Some Thoughts on Vegetables, or A Dead Beet in the Neighborhood

Destiny Calls!

An Unexpected Journey

The Dog in the Green Toupée

The Transformation of Toby and Pete

Curse of the Vampires

Home Is Where the Heart Is

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Rear Flap

Publication Info

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To my father,

who raised me on a

diet of corn, ham,

and punster cheese.

Editor’s Note

HAVING BEEN in the publishing business for many years, there is little left to surprise me. I have, as Harold puts it in his new book, come to “expect the unexpected.” So I wasn’t surprised in the least to receive a phone call recently from a well-known literary agent asking me to take a look at a new client’s book. Business as usual, I thought. Imagine my amazement upon receipt of the manuscript and following note to discover just who her new client was.

Dear Ed, (the author wrote familiarly)

I hope you won’t think I’ve “gone Hollywood,” but my friend Chester convinced me that with this, my third book, I should hire an agent. “After all,” he counseled me, “who’s going to handle all those requests that will undoubtedly pour in for your personal appearances on the Today show, the Tonight show and Animal Kingdom ? And who will watch over your editor to make sure he treats you with the respect due the most famous canine author since Erich Beagle?” I hope you will forgive the latter comment as I have had no complaints with your treatment of me thus far and anticipate only the best in our continued relationship.

Nonetheless, I have engaged the services of a literary agent who will deliver these pages to you. For this and other services, I am sure she will be worth her weight in dog biscuits.

Once again, I do hope you will view publication of my work favorably.

Yours sincerely,

Harold X.

I gazed out the window next to my desk and watched a new skyscraper being erected nearby. There’s no stopping progress, I mused. With a sigh, I turned my attention back to Harold’s manuscript. I would miss his familiar bedraggled figure appearing unannounced at my door, his latest effort clenched between his teeth. To think that Harold, of all writers, should have hired an agent! It was with a heavy heart indeed that I began to read the manuscript entitled The Celery Stalks at Midnight .

But it was not long before I forgot everything save the harrowing story that unfolded in the pages therein. It is a story that dares to ask the question: When the moon is up and the night creatures begin to stir, who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of lettuce?

For the answer, read on.

Chapter 1

The Disappearance

IT WAS NOT a dark and stormy night. Indeed, there was nothing in the elements to foreshadow the events that lay ahead.

Chester, Howie and I were gathered on the front porch for a bit of post-dinner snoozing. I was stretched out on my back, my paws dangling at my sides, thinking of nothing more than the meal I’d just eaten and the chocolate treat I hoped might still lie ahead. After all, it was Friday night, the one night of the week Toby was allowed to stay up to read as late as he wanted. And that meant snacks. Snacks to be shared with his old pal, Harold. That’s me.

Chester, curled up on an open comic book nearby, purred contentedly. Only Howie, who was growling as he chewed vigorously on a rawhide bone, seemed unable to relax. But all that high-strung energy was natural, I suppose, considering he was still just a puppy.

“Boy, this is the life, huh, Uncle Harold?” Howie asked between growls.

“Mmph,” I replied with as much vigor as I could muster. Which wasn’t much. After all, I wasn’t a puppy anymore and had used up most of my energy long ago. I listened to the sound of children playing down the block somewhere.

“There’s nothing like hanging out on the porch after a good meal,” Howie went on enthusiastically. He lifted his quivering nostrils to the air and sniffed rapidly.

“Ahhh! Smell that night air. Mmm, what’s that? Somebody’s having a … a what’d ya call it? What is it when they cook outside, Pop?”

Chester raised an eyelid. “A barbecue,” he said with a yawn.

“Oh, yeah. Gee, I have so much to learn. But you and Uncle Harold have taught me a lot already.” He gazed admiringly at Chester. “Thanks, Pop,” he said.

Chester raised his other eyelid and shook his head. He turned his gaze from Howie to me.

“Why does the kid insist on calling me ‘Pop’?” he asked. “I’m not his father. I’m not even a dog. If anyone around here should be his ‘pop,’ it should be you, Harold. Dogs of a feather should stick together and all that.”

Howie chuckled. “That’s a good one, Pop. ‘Dogs of a feather …’ I’ll have to remember that one.”

I didn’t even attempt to answer Chester’s question. After all, Chester, who doesn’t hold dogs in particularly high regard, did seem an odd choice of a father figure for a young pup. But Howie, who had recently come to live with us, had formed his attachment right away, and there was no breaking him of it now.

“Too bad the rabbit can’t come out here, too,” Howie went on with a nod toward the living room. “It’s not fair, his having to be cooped up inside that cage all the time.”

“I’m afraid that’s a rabbit’s fate,” I said. “At least for a domesticated one. Though I must agree with you, Howie; I feel sorry for Bunnicula, too.”

“Save your sympathy,” Chester muttered. “Bunnicula is no ordinary rabbit. If he ever got out … and let’s not forget that once upon a time he did, Harold … he’d only stir up trouble.”

“Are you still convinced—” I started to say, but stopped myself, not wanting to alarm young Howie with Chester’s theories of Bunnicula’s true identity.

Chester looked mildly surprised. “Of course, I am,” he replied. “Can there be any doubt? You saw the evidence yourself, Harold.”

Howie looked back and forth from Chester to me. “What are you two talking about?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing.” I thought of the cuddly little bunny-rabbit who’d become my friend, of the hours we’d spent snuggling in front of crackling fires on cold winter nights, of the time I’d saved him from Chester’s attempt to starve him to death.

“That rabbit is a vampire,” Chester said matter-of-factly.

Howie’s head jerked up. The rawhide bone tumbled down the front steps. “What? A vampire?” He gasped. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he asked, “What’s a vampire?”

I felt obliged to step in and save Howie from the seamier facts of life.

“A vampire,” I explained, “is the person who calls the rules during a baseball game.”

“Don’t confuse the kid,” Chester said, bathing a paw. “And don’t be such a Pollyanna.” Turning to Howie, he said, “A vampire is a creature, once dead, who sucks the blood out of other living beings in order to live.”

Howie’s eyes widened in amazement.

“Wh … wh … what?” he stammered.

“So far, our friend Bunnicula hasn’t attacked people,” Chester went on calmly, “or cats or dogs for that matter. But he has drained the juices out of vegetables, turning them ghostly white. He came to live with us when our family …”

“One night the Monroes went to the movies,” I said, picking up the story, “and found Bunnicula lying in a dirt-filled box on one of the seats.”