Debora Hou - Nighty-Nightmare

Nighty-Nightmare

James Howe

Editors Note

The Adventure

Two Men and a Dawg

Things Are Not What They Seem

Nobody Here But Us Chickens

Nighty-Nightmare

Once Upon a Time in Transylvania

A Family Forever

Dawg Gone! (And Thats Not All)

Trails End

Authors Note

Front Flap

Rear Flap

Publication Info

Version Info

To

Maureen Hayes

Bunniculas friend & mine

Editors Note

SOON AFTER THE PUBLISHING HOUSE for which I work was purchased by a large manufacturer of computers and herbal soft drinks, I found myself cleaning out my desk in preparation for a move to new quarters. Feeling a little melancholy, I was delighted to discover in the very bottom drawer a manuscript of Bunnicula, A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery. This was one of my first books as an editor, and it brought back happy memories of the afternoon its canine author, Harold X., appeared at my door, the typewritten pages clenched in his teeth.

I hadnt seen Harold in a long time, not since before hed hired a literary agent to handle his affairs. Wondering what had become of him (and eager to find out if hed written anything since his last book, The Celery Stalks at Midnight), I rang up his agent, only to be informed by a machine that she had given up her business to become a yoga instructor. I replaced the receiver and wondered if I would ever see Harold again.

Gently I laid the manuscript at the top of the box of items I would personally move to my new office, reflecting once again on the changing times. You can well imagine my delight when a few days later I saw Harolds familiar face peek round the edge of my half-open door.

I dashed down the hall to the nearest vending machine, so we could celebrate our reunion over a chocolate bar. Happily I munched my half while reading the note accompanying Harolds new manuscript:

Dear friend,

My literary agent and I have parted ways. She wanted to call my new book Beyond the Further Adventures of Bunnicula: The Final Hare, or Terror in the Woods Part IVThe Book. She said it would look great in paperback. Personally, I couldnt see it. In any event, shortly after she failed to sell the T-shirt rights to her latest best seller, she changed careers.

Perhaps it is for the best. Now I can concentrate on writing without my mind being cluttered with commercial concerns. Knowing that you share with me a devotion to Literature, I hope youwill find, this latest effort worthy of your consideration.

Yours sincerely,

Harold X.

After Harold left, I pushed aside the fleeting thought that the title Nighty-Nightmare would look great on a sleepshirt and began to read.

Chapter 1

The Adventure

IT BEGAN on the bottom of a canoe in the middle of Boggy Lake, some sixty miles from home and fifty yards from solid ground. Thegentle rocking of the boat was lulling me to sleep when I felt Mr. Monroes hand come to rest on that spot between the tops of my ears where the hair goes every which way and the scalp seems to lie forever in wait for a little love and attention. I sighed. Three pats usually led to some vigorous scratching. But this time something was wrong. Mr. Monroe didnt lift his hand after the second pat. Instead, he left it there flat and heavy, like an iron forgotten in the rush of attending to more pressing matters.

I looked up, hoping to hear that hed grown tired of fishing and was ready to head back to the cabin and cook up some smores. Ever since Toby and Pete had introduced me to those gooey, crispy, chocolaty delights the summer before, I couldnt get enough. But smores were not what was on Mr. Monroes mind. Alas. No, he was in the mood for reflection. And who better to share such moments, he was undoubtedly thinking, than mans best friend himself?

Harold, he said, staring off at the pine trees along the lakes edge, Im going to be forty soon.You know what that means, dont you?

Birthday cake, I thought.

It means half my life is over. Half my road is traveled. Half my songs are sung. Id never thought about middle age that way before. Gee, I thought, half my naps are taken.

I whimpered sympathetically.

Mr. Monroe looked at me and smiled. You understand what Im talking about, dont you, ol buddy? In all the years Id known him hed never called me ol buddy. I mean, hes a college professor. This was serious. You know what we need? We need an adventure, Harold. We need to do something weve never done before. Something we always wanted to do in our youth but never did. I never chewed a chair leg, I thought. That would be fun. Listen, boy, were only here for a few days, but we still have time to do something new and adventurous and fun. Lets go on an overnight camping trip! Well sleep out in the open, under the stars. What do you think, Harold?

Mosquitoes, I thought. Ticks, I thought. Cockleburs. I wasnt sure I liked the idea at all. But thensomething else occurred to me.

Smores.

My tongue fell out of my mouth, and the next thing I knew I was looking into Mr. Monroes eyes and drooling.

Thats the spirit, Harold, he said. Lets go tell the others.

The paddle hit the water with a sharp smack. Mr. Monroes eyes glinted with determination as he carried us quickly to shore. He wasnt simply homeward bound, however; he was bound for adventure, bound for recapturing his youth.

I had no idea then that he had set his course as well on what would prove to be the most terrifying night of my life.

TEN MINUTES LATER, we were at the door of Lake Expectations, the Monroes cabin retreat, named after Mr. Monroes favorite book. The boys, who seemed to be the only ones around, came running when they heard their father call out his news. I couldnt help noticing that despitetheir enthusiasm, they managed to keep their tongues in their mouths.

That is so cool, Pete shouted. Can we go tonight?

Yeah, Dad, can we? Toby echoed.

I dont know, Mr. Monroe said as we all went inside. Ive never done this sort of thing before. Theres a lot of preparation involved.

Dont worry, said Pete. Ill take charge.

Well, his father said.

No, its okay. Really, Pete said, in a tone Id heard him using a lot lately. Ive been reading up on camping. For my badge, see. I know all about this stuff.

Mrs. Monroe came in from the back porch then, carrying a chipped pitcher full of buggy flowers. Is this the secret project youve been working on? she asked Pete.

Pete shook his head. Thats a different merit badge.

Why cant you tell us about it? Toby said.

Because its none of your business, squirt.

Pete, said Mrs. Monroe, wiping the bottom ofthe pitcher with her hand and placing it on the table.

Well, it isnt fair, Pete said. Toby thinks he has to do everything I do.

Im a scout, too, Toby said.

Pete looked at his younger brother and laughed. Youre a Bobcat, he said. Anybody can be a Bobcat.

Yeah, I guess so, Toby mumbled. You were one once.

Boys, said Mrs. Monroe. Robert.

Right, Mr. Monroe said. If were going to go on an overnight, lets have some fun doing it. I dont know what your other project is, Pete, but I see no reason why Toby cant help you out on this one. Why dont you get those camping books of yours, and well all pitch in? The sooner were ready, the sooner we can leave.

Yippee! Toby shouted. Can the animals come with us?

Oh, I dont know about that, Mrs. Monroe said. Theyll be fine here for one night.

But theyll miss all the fun, Toby said. Heran over and gave me a hug. Harold wants to go, dont you, boy? I licked his ear. See?

Mr. Monroe patted my head. Three times. And then he began to scratch. This was Harolds idea almost as much as mine, he said. I think he deserves to go.