Howie Monroe and the Doghouse of Doom

by James Howe

  It was in Inanimate Objects class the next morning, while reading aloud a passage from Flying Hydrants by Altitudinous Airedale, that Howie found out just how much danger he was in.

  A spitball hit him in the back of the head!

  “Professor Sneak!” he called out. “A spit-ball hit me in the back of the head!”

  Sneak sneered. (Howie marveled at the alliteration.)

  “That is not a spitball,” the professor told Howie, his words dripping contempt even as his lips dripped drool. “One would think our most . . . gifted . . . student would be able to recognize an Aeriated Elasticus when he is hit by one in the back of the head.”

  Baco, Grab, and Run snickered. Sneak snickered too.

  Howie had a sudden craving for a candy bar.

  “That was nothing more than a rubber band,” Delilah said after class, once again proving that she did know a thing or two. “Someone snapped a rubber band at you, Howie, and I think I know who it was.”

  “Baco?”

  “No.”

  “Grab?”

  “No.”

  “Run?”

  “No.”

  “Who, then?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Snivel sniveled. “I’m your friend, Howie.”

  “Of course it wasn’t you, Snivel,” said Delilah. She reminded herself to be patient with Snivel, who meant well, but really wasn’t as smart as she was and also suffered from being a boy. “It was someone from another dimension. Someone who is determined to get you, Howie. Someone who has been after you ever since ’e flattened yer fam’ly.”

  Howie gasped. “Surely you don’t mean—”

  “Yes!” Delilah said. “I mean The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke, whose real name, by the way, is Herbert. I read it in a book.”

  There was a peal of thunder. The lights dimmed and went out. It was as dark as the inside of a finely tuned concert piano. Howie wondered if the Dogwiz Academy for Canine Conjurers had forgotten to pay its electric bill.

  CHAPTER 5:

  “THE WRITING ON THE WALL”

  When the lights came back on, Howie was all alone. A message was scrawled on the wall next to him in red paint. Or was it paint? Maybe . . . it . . . was . . . ketchup!

  Howie read the words that were meant for his eyes alone:

  Don’t call me Herbert! My name is The-Evil-Force-whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke!

  Touchy, touchy, thought Howie. But where had Delilah and Snivel gone? Howie took a step forward and slipped on a banana peel.

  Someone—or something—chuckled! The message on the wall vanished! Howie thought it might be a good time to check the schedule for the next Wiz-on-Wheels out of there.

  “I want to go home,” he whimpered pathetically enough to make the reader reach for a tissue.

  “Oh, but you can’t go home, sir, no, sir, that you mustn’t, sir.” It was Hoppy, the talking—and increasingly annoying—frog.

  “Why can’t I go home?” Howie asked.

  “Because you have a mission, sir,” said Hoppy. “And Hoppy is here to help you achieve it. If you do, then Hoppy will be turned into his former self.”

  “A prince?” Howie asked.

  “No, a tadpole,” said Hoppy. “Hoppy was happy as a tadpole. There was so little pressure.”

  “There’s pressure being a frog?”

  “You have no idea.”

  It was true. Howie had no idea.

  “But what is my mission?” Howie asked.

  Hoppy hopped around in every direction to make sure they weren’t being watched. When he was sure, he motioned for Howie to bend down. This wasn’t hard, since Howie was a wirehaired dachshund and already pretty much eye to eye with the talking frog.

  “You must do something Hoppy told you never to do,” Hoppy told Howie.

  “Talk with my mouth full?” Howie asked, surprised.

  “No, that was your aunt. Hoppy told you you must never enter the Doghouse of Doom. Well, now you must, sir. You must enter the Doghouse of Doom and defeat The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke!”

  “Is that all?” the brave and daring, not to mention heroic, Howie asked.

  “Actually, no,” said Hoppy. “First, you must go to the Sweltering Swamp and find the lost key to the Tailwagger Triangle, where you are to go and release the Seven-Headed Schnauzer, after which you must find homes for the wandering ghosts of the Corridors of Captivity, then take a nap, following which you will crawl through the Tunnel of Terrible Things, swim the Lake of Laughable Luck, climb the Mountain of Monstrous Mischief, pass all your exams, win the World Championship in Fetch for Dogwiz, and make a quarter materialize from behind Professor Sneak’s right ear.”

  “I can do that!” Howie, the heroic and brave, not to mention daring, dachshund replied. “The nap part, anyway.”

  It wasn’t long before Howie had gone to the Sweltering Swamp and found the key to the Tailwagger Triangle, released the Seven-Headed Schnauzer, found homes for the wandering ghosts of the Corridors of Captivity, taken a nap, crawled through the Tunnel of Terrible Things, swum the Lake of Laughable Luck, climbed the Mountain of Monstrous Mischief, taken a second nap, passed all his exams, won the World Championship in Fetch for Dogwiz, and made a quarter materialize from behind Professor Sneak’s right ear.

  “Piece of cake,” said Howie, who wasn’t even winded.

  “You couldn’t have done it without that second nap,” Baco said, smirking. Baco smirking was even less likable than Baco sneering. “Anyway, Bursitis Boy, now you have to enter the Doghouse of Doom! It’s been nice knowin’ ya . . . not!”

  Baco threw back his head and laughed. Grab and Run threw back their heads too, but they forgot to catch them.

  In the distance, the Whistling Willow whistled “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.” Howie felt the power of the music, felt himself being pulled to the Doghouse, pulled to his fate, pulled to his . . . DOOM?!?!?!?”

  CHAPTER 6:

  “INTO THE DOGHOUSE OF DOOM”

  It was the night before Howie was to face his longtime enemy, The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke (aka Herbert), and his bursitis was hurting so badly, he could barely walk. But walk he did, all the way to the little cabin on the other side of the Sweltering Swamp, where Hamlet lived with his pet bloatfish Wanda. Delilah and Snivel went with him, mainly because Howie didn’t want Delilah to be mad at him because she had such a small part in this book.

  “I w’n y’ t’ t’k th’s g’f w’ y’, H’wie,” Hamlet told Howie as he and his friends drank the crabgrass tea Hamlet had made for them.

  “Fewer apostrophes, please,” the gracious and polite, not to mention well-mannered, Howie said. “I can’t understand a thing you’re saying.”

  “Sor’y,” said Hamlet. “What I said was, I want yeh t’ take this gift wi’ yeh, Howie. It’ll protect yeh from, well, from yeh know who.” Hamlet handed Howie a small mirror.

  Howie checked to see if he had any crabgrass stains on his teeth, then asked, “How will this protect me?”

  “It is said,” said Hamlet, “that the face of The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke is so fearful, no one may look upon it without turnin’ t’ plastic. Ef yeh hold th’ mirror afore yeh, then per’aps The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke will see ‘is own face f’rst and ’e will be turned t’ plastic afore—”

  “Afore I am turned to plastic,” Howie said, finishing the sentence for him. He hated the idea of being turned to plastic. It was so permanent. Not to mention tacky. “Thank you,” he said to Hamlet.

  “Aye, laddie-boy-boy-lad-laddio,” said Hamlet. “And don’t ferget, we’ll be right there wi’ yeh when yeh go in t’morrow.”

  “Aye,” said Snivel. “Tha’ we will.”

  Delilah didn’t say a word. She sniffed softly and wiped the corner of an eye with one of her long, blonde, curly ears. A lump formed in Howie’s throat. What if he went into the Doghouse of Doom and never came out? Would he ever again return to Centerville, to the family who made him miserab
le, but, hey, isn’t that what a family’s for? Would he ever again sleep under Pete’s bed? Would he ever again eat Kibbles or Bits while the rest of his family gorged themselves on nine-course meals and three-layer cakes? Would he ever again get to use the words “ever again” in a sentence?

  These thoughts continued to trouble him the next day as he tried to concentrate on his studies and ignore the jeers of Baco and Grab and Run. Every hour he went to the Talking Clock to find out when he was supposed to enter the Doghouse of Doom.

  “Don’t fret, not yet,” the Talking Clock said to him each time he approached.

  But then, after leaving his Making Humans Sit, Shake, and Heel class, he heard the Talking Clock call his name: “Howie Monroe, It’s Time to Go! Howie Monroe, It’s Time to Go!”

  Running out into the courtyard, he looked up at the face of the clock and pleaded, “Not yet! It’s too soon!”

  “Too soon, too late, it is your fate, at twenty past four, to go through the door.”

  It was now four-nineteen.

  A minute later, everyone from the Dogwiz Academy for Canine Conjurers had gathered to see Howie off. Some held up signs that read, “Good luck, Howie!” and, “We believe in you!” Howie noticed that Baco’s sign read, “So long, sucka!”, but what could you expect?

  “I’m going in,” Howie announced. Of course, with the mirror Hamlet had given him clenched between his teeth, it came out, “Ah oh-ee ih.”

  Ageless Duffelbag, the headmaster of Dogwiz, rushed up to Howie, tying the mirror around his neck with a ribbon so Howie wouldn’t have to speak with his mouth full and confuse the reader. It was bad enough with Hamlet and all those apostrophes.

  “If all else fails,” Duffelbag said to Howie, “there is a spell that will turn The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke into a bowl of split pea soup. It is—”

  But before Duffelbag could say another word, the Talking Clock boomed, “It’s twenty past four, Duffelbag’s a bore, the time is here, to face your fear!”

  The Whistling Willow began to whistle “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” Howie could not resist its siren call. He entered the Doghouse, wondering how in the world he would defeat The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke. After all, he was only one small dachshund in a world gone mad, one tiny voice in a sea of voices, one pebble in a field of boulders, one itsy-bitsy minnow in a school of sharks!

  “Hello?” he called out.

  “Hello, yourself,” a voice replied.

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  That is the BEST cliff – I’ve ever written! Now I just have to figure out who the voice belongs to. I mean, it’s got to be The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not–Be–Spoke, right?

  Maybe not. What if there’s some, like, monster waiting for Howie? Or maybe it’s a ghost. Or . . .

  Wait a minute. Who is The–Evil–Force–Whose–Nam–C’not–Be–Spoke, anyway? I’d better figure that one out first.

  This writing business involves way too much thinking.

  CHAPTER 7:

  “THE LAKE OF LOST ILLUSIONS”

  The Doghouse was a lot bigger than it looked from the outside. Of course, Howie couldn’t really tell how big it was because it was totally black. Black as the inside of a finely tuned . . . black as night. Still, he had the feeling it was really big because of the way his voice and the voice of whoever—or whatever—it was that answered him back echoed.

  “Who’s there . . . there . . . there?” Howie called out.

  A chorus of voices answered this time. They sang, “Follow the road beneath your feet, beneath your feet, we repeat: Follow the road beneath your feet, and you will get where you’re going.”

  No duh, thought Howie as a path lit up under his feet. With each step he took, the light continued to lead the way. Howie thought this was pretty cool, even though he didn’t know where it was taking him. He figured it didn’t really matter since he knew he was going to end up facing The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke and defeating him. He would probably have to turn him into plastic, because he had the mirror and he didn’t know the spell to turn him into a bowl of split pea soup. He was disappointed. Split pea soup was his favorite. What would he do with a plastic The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke? Wire him and turn him into a lamp, maybe.

  “I heard that!” a voice boomed. It was the same voice Howie had heard when he’d first entered the Doghouse of Doom.

  “Heard what?” Howie, the courageous and dauntless dachshund, replied bravely, panting just slightly enough to keep the sympathy of the reader.

  “The business about the lamp,” said the voice.

  “You can hear my thoughts?” Howie asked.

  “Just one of my many talents,” said the voice. “Want to know some more?”

  There was a blinding flash of light, a deafening crash of thunder, a suffocating puff of smoke, an exhausting slide show of scenes from The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke’s summer vacation on the Jersey Shore . . .

  “Okay, okay!” Howie cried out at last. “I get the idea!”

  Suddenly, the lights went out under Howie’s feet, and he found himself standing at the edge of a dimly lit lake. It was not the Lake of Laughable Luck. He’d already been there, done that. But what lake was it?

  “It’s the Lake of Lost Illusions,” said the voice, reading Howie’s thoughts.

  Howie went, “Oooooo,” thinking how heavy the story had suddenly become and how impressed his editor would be that he had turned literary without a moment’s notice.

  As Howie’s eyes adjusted to the light, he made out a thing sitting in the middle of the lake on some kind of pod. The thing was huge. He wished he could see it better. A lamp or two wouldn’t have been a bad idea.

  “You’ve got lamps on the brain,” the voice said. “But too much light is a no-no. I’m surrounded by water. If I could see my reflection, I’d turn to plastic.”

  “So you’re The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke!” Howie exclaimed.

  “Gee, you’re smart,” said The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke. “That must be why you get to be the hero of the story. Okay, smart guy, here you are in the Doghouse of Doom, with the entire population of the Dogwiz Academy for Canine Conjurers and all seven of your readers just waiting for you to defeat me and prove that you’re the greatest dog wizard of all time. So what’re you gonna do about it, huh, huh, what’re you gonna do?”

  Howie wanted to think, Gee, what an obnoxious bully—and I’ll have you know I have more than seven readers, I have at least eight, but of course he couldn’t think that because the obnoxious bully would read his thoughts. Boy, he could understand why his parents didn’t like this guy back in grade school.

  He knew he had to think about something else instead. He thought about the mirror. This was a mistake.

  “That mirror’s good for nothing,” said the bully on the pod. “Zero. Zip. Zilch.” After running out of Z-words, he continued. “You think you’re the first one to try the mirror thing? Give me a break. On second thought, I’ll give you a break.”

  The ribbon around Howie’s neck snapped as the mirror flew into the air and exploded into a million pieces. Or maybe thirty-seven.

  “And now,” said The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke, “I’m going to do that to . . . you!”

  Howie didn’t like the sound of that. He thought of Delilah, who would miss him terribly once she’d forgiven him for giving her such a small part in this book. He thought of the Monroes, who weren’t so bad once you got past their being cruel and miserable. He thought of Snivel and Hamlet and Hoppy, and all the other new friends he’d made since coming to Dogwiz. It wasn’t fair that he wouldn’t get to see them again, wouldn’t get to eat another meal in the Chamber of Chow, wouldn’t get to write a sequel in what was destined to be the best-selling series of all time, wouldn’t—

  “I don’t have time for so much thinking!” The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke snarled, interrupting Howie’s thoughts
. “I need to get on with it. I’ve been waiting for years to finish what I started when I squished your mommy and daddy. Now it’s your turn! Ta-ta, Howie Monroe! One . . . two . . . ”

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  Yikes! What am I going to do? I can’t let that big obnoxious Evil–Force–Whose–Nam–C’not . . . oh, the heck with it, Herbert, destroy Howie! It just wouldn’t be right. I’d get letters. People would stop reading my books. I’D HAVE TO GO BACK TO BEING NOT FAMOUS!! But how an I going to save him?

  I’ll ask uncle Harold. Maybe I should ask Pop, too. (I should probably let my readers know that “Pop” is what I call Chester, the cat I live with, even if he’s not in this story. Then again, I could just tell them to see Book 1: It Came from Beneath the Bed! By Howie Monroe and Book 2: Invasion of the Mind Swappers from Asteroid 6!™ By Howie Monroe.)

  Okay, I asked Uncle Harold and Pop. Uncle Harold said, “you could try bringing in another character.”

  Why would I do that? Anyway, I want Howie to save the day, not somebody else.

  He also said, “Look carefully at what you’ve already written. Maybe the answer is right in front of you.”

  That means having to go back and actually read what I wrote. Doesn’t he know I have better things to do with my time?

  Pop was no better. His advice had something to do with getting a life.

  Hm, maybe I should do what uncle Harold suggested. Let’s see what happens if I bring another character in unexpectedly.

  “I don’t have time for so much thinking!” The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke snarled, interrupting Howie’s thoughts. “I need to get on with it. I’ve been waiting for years to finish what I started when I squished your mommy and daddy. Now it’s your turn! Ta-ta, Howie Monroe! One . . . two . . . ”

  “Stop!” a new voice cried out.