The Celery Stalks at Midnight

by James Howe

  “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.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked in a somewhat garbled voice.

  “I’m just hearkening to the call of chocolate,” I replied.

  “Well, hearken to this before you go anywhere,” he said. “We’ve got to alert the Monroes to what’s going on. Now, you and Howie start whimpering. I’ll jump up on Bunnicula’s cage.”

  “Well, all right,” I agreed somewhat reluctantly. “For Bunnicula’s sake.”

  Mr. Monroe was turning out the lights. Mrs. Monroe stood at the bottom of the stairs ready to go up. A pile of clothes was in her arms. Howie and I ran to her side and whimpered pathetically.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, her voice full of concern. “Do you want some water?” She turned to her husband. “Robert, why don’t you check their water dishes before coming up? I want to start folding this laundry.”

  I noticed that Chester had jumped up on the top of the cage, but as that part of the room was darkened already, no one paid any attention. Mrs. Monroe went up the stairs and Mr. Monroe into the kitchen. Chester jumped down.

  When Mr. Monroe reentered, he stood looking down at us, shaking his head. “I don’t know what your problem is, fellas,” he said, “but you’ve got plenty of water.” Once again, I started to whimper as Howie tugged at Mr. Monroe’s pants leg. Chester, meanwhile, began hopping around the living room floor, looking as if he was trying to make his way over a patch of hot tar. Mr. Monroe just smiled at him. “Well, Chester, it looks as if you’re still full of energy. Too bad we can’t let you out. Good night.”

  He patted each of us and went to bed.

  “Gee, Pop, are you okay?” Howie asked. “Can I help?”

  “You can help by not being so dumb,” Chester muttered, a look of disgust on his face. “I was trying to be a rabbit.”

  Howie became confused. “Why would you want to be a rabbit?” he asked. “Aren’t you happy being a cat?”

  I moved toward the stairs, the lure of crinkling cellophane (covering, I hoped, chocolate cupcakes) too strong to resist. Chester called after me.

  “Harold, take the kid with you, will you? I’ve got to plan my strategy.”

  “I want to stay with you, Pop,” Howie said.

  Chester groaned.

  “What strategy?” I asked.

  “We’ve got to find that rabbit and return him to his cage before it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?” I asked. “I’m concerned about Bunnicula, too, but—”

  “It’s not the rabbit I’m worried about,” he said. “It’s us, you fool. I shudder to think what could happen in one little night with that bunny on the loose.”

  “Well,” I replied, “I’ll let you worry about that. I’ve got bigger worries on my stomach—er, mind—right now.”

  I went up the stairs. I could hear Chester mumbling about rabbits and vegetables and vampires, and I knew his would be a restless night. But, I reassured myself, he would have Howie at his side to get him through. And what a comfort that would be.

  After all, just as I turned the corner of the landing, didn’t I hear Howie remark, “Well, Pop, you know what they always say?”

  “No, son,” Chester answered, “what do they always say?”

  “Hare today, gone tomorrow.”

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

  I WAS RUDELY awakened the next morning by Pete’s crash landing just inches from where I lay on Toby’s bed.

  “Wake up, wake up, you sleepy-creep!” Pete cried as he yanked his brother’s pillow out from under his head and began badgering him with it. I was sorely tempted to pick Pete up by the tailend of his pajamas and deposit him through the nearest open window, but decided this would not be particularly well-advised. Besides, I had morning mouth, and the thought of getting cotton all over my tongue gave me goose bumps. Yuck!

  Toby, meanwhile, was screaming bloody murder.

  “Help! Get out of here, Pete! What’s the matter with you, anyway? Mom!” As he began kicking furiously at his attacker, I did the only sensible thing left open to me. I jumped off the bed and headed straight for the door.

  As I left, I noticed Pete pull the sheet across the bottom half of his face and say, “Today eez the beeg day! Heh-heh-heh!”

  That’s a funny thing to say, I thought.

  Pete’s momentary stillness gave Toby an advantage. He knocked Pete’s legs out from under him and went running out the door to the bathroom. I started down the stairs, narrowly missing being hit by the basketball that flew out of the bedroom and hit the closing bathroom door with a thud. It bounced back across the hall floor, causing the lighting fixture on the ceiling below to quake.

  Boy, I thought, it’ll be nice to get downstairs to some peace and quiet.

  Mrs. Monroe stood at the bottom of the stairs. I whimpered good morning.

  “Toby! Pete!” she greeted me in return. “Stop all that noise this minute! Peter, let your brother get dressed. Come down here and eat your breakfast. It’s getting cold!”

  As I sauntered across the living room, Mr. Monroe rushed into the house, letting the front door slam behind him. “You won’t believe it,” he said, “but the garage door’s been open all night!”

  “Oh, no!” Mrs. Monroe said. “Was anything taken? We’re lucky no one broke into the house.”

  Pete charged down the stairs, skipping every other step. “What about the—” he started to say.

  His father waved his hands in the air. “Everything’s right where it belongs. Nothing’s missing. We were lucky this time. But we’ll have to be more careful in the future.”

  A delectable aroma reached my nostrils. I thought back to the yummy chocolate-chip cookies Toby had shared with me the night before and decided a slice or two of the nice crisp bacon presently burning on the kitchen stove would be a perfect follow-up treat this morning.

  “Oh, no!” Mrs. Monroe cried. “The bacon!”

  “Mom!” Toby called from upstairs. “The toilet’s stuck. I think it’s going to run over.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Monroe looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “You to the bacon,” Mr. Monroe said, “I to the toilet.”

  And I to the food dish, I thought.

  Chester and Howie were already eating when I entered the kitchen with Mrs. Monroe.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerfully.

  “Good morning, Uncle Harold,” Howie yipped.

  Chester, seemingly lost in thought—or at least in cat food—said not a word.

  I was starved, but hesitated before digging in, hoping a little crumbled-up bacon might find its way to my dish. My hopes were not in vain.

  “Great!” Mrs. Monroe said, whisking the sizzling frying pan off the stove. “Cold eggs and burned bacon. Well, this day is off to a terrific start. Here, fellas, it’s all yours.”

  This day is off to a terrific start, I thought, as the bacon bits landed on my dish. Chester, who had still not said “good morning,” didn’t seem to share my attitude.

  “What’s the matter with you today?” I asked. “Pop’s had a rough night,” I was informed by Howie.

  “Oh,” I said. “What happened, Chester?” “Nothing happened,” Chester’s junior interpreter responded. “He just couldn’t sleep, worrying.”

  “Oh, come on,” I replied. “What’s to worry about? So Bunnicula got out. He’ll come back. Everybody’s in such a hurry around here this morning, maybe they’re going out to look for him. Anywa
y, he’ll be all right.”

  “It’s not Bunnicula that Pop’s worried about.” I turned to Chester. “Chester, have you lost your facility for speech?” I asked.

  “Vegetables,” Chester mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Vegetables,” Howie echoed.

  “Yes, thank you, Howie. I heard Chester. I just don’t understand what he means.”

  “Follow me,” Chester said, turning and walking out the kitchen door. His canine shadow trailed behind him.

  “But... ” I said, turning to my still-occupied food dish, “... but what about my breakfast?”

  Turning over his shoulder, Chester replied, “This is important.” And he vanished beyond the swinging door.

  “Important,” Howie repeated as he too disappeared from sight.

  Hurriedly, I wolfed down the rest of my morning repast and, in a matter of seconds, was in the living room. Chester was perched on the arm of his favorite chair. Howie sat attentively at his feet.

  Toby and Mr. Monroe came down the stairs to join the rest of the family in the kitchen. In his arms, Toby was clutching an overflowing shopping bag.

  “I’m ready to go,” he cried as he bounded through the kitchen door.

  “Not until you’ve eaten,” I heard his father say as he followed. “Then we’ll be on our way.”

  Chester watched the swinging kitchen door slowly close, then turned to us.

  “Has it ever occurred to you what happens to those vegetables?” he remarked.

  “What vegetables?” I asked.

  Chester looked deeply into my eyes. “The vegetables that Bunnicula attacks. The vegetables he drains of their life’s juices. The vegetables, in short, he vampirizes!”

  “Oh, those vegetables,” I said.

  “Those vegetables exactly. You see, Harold, I’ve given a great deal of thought to those vegetables during the night, and I have concluded... “

  Howie, who had strayed from the conversation momentarily to attack a throw rug someone had been thoughtless enough to leave lying around on the floor, of all places, suddenly looked up.

  “Pop’s got this... um, what’d you call it again, Pop?”

  “Theory,” Chester said.

  “Oh, yeah. He’s got this theory, see, that—”

  “Howie, dear boy,” Chester interjected, “why don’t you let me tell it, hmm?”

  “Oh, sure, Pop, whatever you say,” replied the dachshund agreeably. He returned to chewing the corner of the rug.

  Chester went on. “I have this theory, Harold, that these vegetables, once attacked, are not as harmless as one might think.”

  “I never thought of vegetables as harmless,” I said. “Especially spinach.”

  “What do we know from the literature of vampirism?” he continued. Seeing that I knew nothing from the literature of vampirism, he persevered. “We know that once attacked, the vampire’s victims become their master’s slaves. In fact, they are transformed into zombie-vampires, the living dead, doomed to go out into the night seeking fresh bodies to satisfy their bloody cravings.”

  “Chester,” I said softly, “is this necessary right after breakfast?”

  “It can’t wait,” he snapped. “We have to act fast.”

  “To do what?” I asked. “Surely you’re not saying that these vegetables... ”

  “Do they just lie there, useless, finished, dried up?” Chester interrupted. “Or does Bunnicula, like the vampires of old, have a further purpose for them? Are they his minions acting on his orders to turn the world into creatures like himself? When night falls, are they out there waiting to lure innocent victims into taking a bite? Just one bite and... BAM! You’re a goner! Think of it, Harold, if Bunnicula got out last night, this entire neighborhood could be filled with killer parsnips, blood-thirsty string beans, homicidal heads of lettuce—”

  “Don’t forget the minions,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The minions who are acting on his orders. Are minions like onions, Chester?”

  “A minion isn’t a vegetable, you dolt. A minion is a follower, a servant.”

  “Oh.”

  I reflected for a moment on Chester’s new theory. That’s when I noticed Howie’s whimpering. The poor fellow was cowering under the coffee table.

  “What’s the matter, Howie?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid,” he answered. “What if those killer parsnips sneak up on me while I’m sleeping and sink their fangs into my neck?”

  I turned to Chester. “You see where your stories are getting us? Poor Howie’s scared out of his wits.”

  “And rightly so, if my thinking is correct.”

  “But it isn’t correct, Chester,” I replied. “It’s nonsense.”

  “We shall see, we shall see,” Chester said, pulling at the hair between his toes. “But if the people in this town start acting strangely, it could be because Bunnicula and his vegetables have succeeded in .... Sshh! Say no more.”

  Chester bathed himself with sudden vigor as the entire Monroe family, laden with bundles, entered the living room. It looked as if they were headed for an outing of some kind. Well, why not? I thought. It’s a beautiful day for a little romp in the great out-of-doors; I was all set to join them when Chester nudged me.

  “Come on,” he said, “we’ve got some checking up to do.”

  “But... ”

  “Goodbye, Chester. Goodbye, Harold,” Mrs. Monroe said from where she stood by the front door. “Try to keep Howie and each other out of trouble while we’re gone. If you want to go out, you can use the pet door. There’s water in your dish and—”

  “Dear,” Mr. Monroe said, touching his wife gently on the arm, “the boys will be fine. Besides, we won’t be gone long. We’ll be back this afternoon.”

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “Anyway, how do they know what you’re saying? They’re just dumb animals.”

  Dumb animals! I thought. Hmmph! Pete had never been above talking to us before. I wondered if he was going through a stage. These days, it seemed as if Pete went through stages faster than socks.

  Toby kicked his brother in the shins. “They are not dumb animals,” he cried. I made a mental note to give Toby’s face the reward of a thorough licking later. “They’re smarter than you are.”

  “Don’t make me laugh.” Pete snorted.

  “They are too.”

  “Are not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Are not.”

  “Boys!” Mrs. Monroe cried. “Please. Let’s go.”

  Still bickering, Pete and Toby were led out the front door by their parents.

  “Goodbye, fellas,” Mr. Monroe called out over his shoulder as the front door clicked shut.

  “Do you think we’re smarter than Pete?” I asked Chester.

  “I think we are, Uncle Harold,” said Howie. “Why, just last week, Toby threw a stick in the backyard and Pete didn’t even know enough to chase it and bring it back in his teeth. Even I know that.”

  Chester gazed at Howie through half-closed lids. “Well, there’s your answer, Harold,” he said. “Now, come on, we’ve got to move.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked as I followed Chester through the kitchen door.

  “Outside,” he answered. “We’ve got to find that rabbit and see what damage he’s already done.”

  One after the other, we pushed through the pet door and onto the back porch.

  “Ah!” I said, inhaling deeply. “What a day! Howie, I’ll race you to that tree in the corner of the yard. Whoever falls asleep fastest wins.”

  “But how will we know?” Howie asked.

  Chester cleared his throat. “Before you two tumble off into dreamland, remember what we came out here for. Wait a minute, what’s that?”

  Chester bounded down the stairs and headed in the direction of the garden. Howie and I followed closely behind. We stopped about ten feet from the garden’s edge.

  “There!” Chester exclaimed. “Do you see what I see?”


  Squinting, I made out a round white object lying several feet away.

  “What’s so unusual about a rock?” I asked.

  Chester’s body hugged the ground as he slunk through the grass. Howie, whose body hugs the ground even when he doesn’t slink, waddled behind. Chester came upon the object and batted at it tentatively.

  As I drew closer, he pulled himself up to his full height and proclaimed dramatically, “A beet. A... drained... white... beet!”

  “Oh, great,” Howie said. “Before you know it, the whole neighborhood’ll be full of dead beets.”

  Chester announced, “Bunnicula has been here!”

  “Get it, Uncle Harold? Get it, Pop?” Howie’s tail was wagging furiously. “‘Dead beets.’ Get it, huh, get it?”

  “Yes, Howie, very amusing,” Chester said. “However, you seem to be missing the point. Bunnicula has been here. And he’s left a vampire beet in his wake.”

  “Are you sure it’s not a minion onion?” I asked cynically.

  Howie began to shake again. “Does that mean ... could it be ... will it ... oh, how am I going to sleep tonight?”

  “Harold!” Chester snapped. “Grab that beet and run to the front of the house. We’ve got to warn the Monroes before they leave. Hurry!”

  Being a born follower, and hoping to get this nonsense over with so I could get on to more important things, like sleep, I did as Chester bade me. As I rounded the corner of the house, Mr. Monroe was pulling the station wagon out of the driveway.

  “Get their attention!” Chester cried. “Do something!”

  “I can’t, my mouth’s full,” I tried to say, but it came out sounding like, “Uk kn, mummummphoo.”

  “Howie!”

  Howie reared back his head and let out a fearsome howl. “Aaah-ooooooooo!”

  Chester’s hair went up. “It really gives me the creeps when he does that,” he said. But we saw the Monroes turn and look back through the car windows at us, so it must have done the trick.

  They waved. “Goodbye, boys,” they cried.