The Celery Stalks at Midnight

by James Howe

Mr. Monroe called out, “That’s a good boy, Harold, you play with that old tennis ball. See you later!”

  “Goodbye!”

  “Goodbye!”

  “Goodbye!”

  “Ooo-oy!” I called out around the sides of the beet, which I quickly spat out. “Now what?” I asked. My mouth felt funny.

  Howie and I regarded Chester, who seemed lost in thought.

  After a moment, he turned to us.

  “All right,” he declared, his eyes getting that glaze I know means trouble ahead, “it’s up to us. It’s a big job that has to be done, but no job is too big for us, right, men?”

  “Well... ” I said.

  “Right on, Pop!” shouted Howie gleefully. “Let’s go. Let’s do it. Let’s ... by the way, what is it we’re going to do?”

  “You’ll see,” Chester replied. “Wait here.” And he disappeared around the corner of the house.

  Destiny Calls!

  MOMENTS LATER, Chester reappeared from behind the house carrying a small box in his mouth. He trotted toward us and deposited the box at our feet.

  Howie poked at it with his nose. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Well, as you undoubtedly know,” Chester explained, “in order to destroy a vampire, you have to drive a stake through its heart.”

  I groaned. “Not again! Don’t you remember the last time you tried that?”

  Chester immediately began bathing his tail, which is a cat’s way of covering his humiliation.

  “What happened?” asked Howie.

  “Well,” I said, “it seems Chester decided to drive a stake through Bunnicula’s heart—”

  “Oh, no!” Howie cried. “How could he?” “That’s a good question. With the kind of ’stake’ Chester selected for the job, it was a little difficult. You see, he thought—”

  “All right, all right,” Chester spat out. “I made a little mistake. Everybody’s entitled to one mistake in the course of a lifetime. But don’t worry, Harold, I know what type of stake to use now. I’ve got just the thing.”

  I glanced at the box lying in the grass. “Toothpicks?” I asked.

  “What better way to spear vegetables through the heart?”

  “Toothpicks?” I asked again.

  Chester glared at me. “Yes, toothpicks!” he snapped. “What’s wrong with toothpicks?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I replied with a shrug. “If you want to make little white party hors d’oeuvres out of Bunnicula’s victims ...”

  “We’re not making little white party anythings,” he shot back. “We’re destroying killer vegetables. ”

  “You tell him, Pop,” Howie put in. I gave him a look. “Sorry, Uncle Harold,” he said.

  “And we’re going to find Bunnicula, bring him back home where he belongs and save the people in this town from his evil ways.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. I agreed to go along, not because I was convinced that the townspeople were really in danger, but because I was worried about poor Bunnicula, out there all alone in the world. If anyone needed saving, it was he.

  “Can I carry the toothpicks, Pop?” Howie asked.

  “Sure, kid,” Chester said agreeably. “But first ... ”

  He selected a toothpick from the box and, with a sudden lunge that made Howie and me jump, neatly speared the white beet lying at our feet.

  We gazed for a moment at Chester’s handiwork.

  “Whew, I’ll bet that hurt,” Howie said, shaking his head.

  “Looks like an hors d’oeuvre to me,” I commented.

  “Well, now that the critics have been heard from,” Chester said, “perhaps we can move on.” He lifted his head and, with an air of great importance, began to swagger down the street. “Howie,” he called back over his shoulder, “the toothpicks. ”

  “Right, Pop,” Howie replied, picking up the box with his teeth. I fell into step behind them, and off we went.

  We walked for blocks. Cautiously, we peered into every driveway, every front porch, every open garage door we passed. Nowhere did we see anything out of the ordinary. Indeed, all over town

  people seemed to be going about their lives as usual. When, at length, I suggested to Chester that we do the same, he drew up short and looked me straight in the eye.

  “Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “This is not a day for the ordinary, Harold. We can’t turn back now. Destiny calls.”

  “Harold!” a far-off voice called out suddenly.

  I jumped and looked in amazement at Chester.

  “Did you hear that?” I gasped.

  Chester nodded. “Chester!” the voice cried.

  Chester’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, as he looked wildly about him.

  “Could it be . . .?” I asked. “Is . . . is destiny really calling?”

  “I d-don’t know,” Chester stammered.

  “Harold! Chester!” the voice called again. This time it seemed nearer.

  I could feel my knees start to quiver. Howie ran over and took refuge between my legs. He looked out sheepishly.

  It was then that I turned and saw the familiar figure jogging up the sidewalk.

  “Chester,” I said with a sigh of relief, “look who’s coming.”

  “Oh, no,” he groaned in recognition.

  “Hello, Max,” I said to the approaching bulldog. I noticed that he was wearing the same white turtleneck sweater I’d last seen him in. Chester and I had met Max at Chateau Bow-Wow, the kennel where we’d been boarded when the Monroes went on vacation.

  “Hello, chaps,” he said jovially. “I’ve been calling you and calling you. How’ve you been? Out for a little exercise?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Want to jog?” he asked.

  “Uh, no thanks. Do you live around here?”

  “Just moved in a while ago,” he replied. “My family used to live on the other side of town. That’s our house over there.” He nodded over his shoulder.

  “How do you like it?”

  “Well, it’s bully except for ... “ and he mumbled something that sounded like “next door” and pawed at the ground.

  “Well, Max, it’s been great chewing the fat with you,” Chester said abruptly, “but we’re on an important mission. No time to waste.”

  “Oh, really, Chester? And what may I ask are you up to?”

  “We’re in search of white vegetables! Seen any?”

  Max gave Chester a puzzled look, then shrugged. “Well, I don’t know what you want with ’em, but yes, I have seen some, as a matter of fact. Darndest thing; got up this morning, went out to dig up a bone I’d buried in the garden last week, and what do you think I saw?”

  Howie dropped his box of toothpicks. “The early bird getting the worm?” he asked.

  “Heh, heh, heh,” chuckled Max. “Clever little whippersnapper, isn’t he? No, young fella, what I saw was—”

  “White vegetables!” Chester finished the sentence for him.

  “Right on the money there, Chester. There must have been ... oh, three or four at least ... lying about the garden.”

  “Are they still there?” Chester asked.

  Max turned down the corners of his already turned-down mouth. “Guess so,” he said. “I don’t know where they’d’ve gone to.”

  “Right!” said Chester. “Let’s go. That house over there, you say?”

  “That’s right,” Max replied.

  “You want to join us?” I asked.

  “Uh, no thanks, Harold, ol’ boy,” Max replied. “I’ve had enough adventures for one day, if it’s all the same to you.” It was then that I noticed Max’s face was covered with scratches.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  At first he didn’t answer. Then, gazing off into the distance, he said softly, “Snowball.”

  “Huh?”

  “Snowball,” he repeated. Then, almost in a daze, he wandered off down the street, muttering to himself under his breath.

  That was strange, I thought, as I
trotted along to catch up with Howie and Chester. But then, Max always was a little peculiar. I wondered what he meant by “Snowball.”

  I rounded the corner of the big yellow house Max had indicated was his to find Chester and Howie making stabs at what looked like a large white rutabaga. Their toothpicks kept breaking.

  “Boy, this one’s tough,” Howie said. I noticed two other white objects lying nearby with toothpicks already sticking out of them. With a great deal of effort, Chester finally succeeded in getting the rutabaga to accept its toothpickled fate.

  “Whew,” Chester said, wiping his brow. He looked around him at the rest of the garden. “Doesn’t look as if there are any more to take care of here.”

  Howie scanned the garden as well. “No more here,” he echoed. Then he attacked a hose lying nearby. Growling, he wrestled with it, ignoring the fact that the sprinkler at the other end was bouncing and splashing all over the garden.

  “Try not to leave teethmarks,” I advised.

  “Come on, Howie, knock it off,” Chester said. “We’ve got to keep moving. You can play later.” He started off in the direction of the street when he came to a sudden halt.

  “What if—” he said, shaking his head. “No, he couldn’t have. Not in one night. Still ... ”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  Howie let out a yelp as water spurted into his eye. He began barking furiously at the leaking hose.

  “Nice work,” I observed. “You’ve not only left teethmarks, you’ve expanded the sprinkler system. May I suggest we get out of here ... fast?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Chester. Howie ran up to Chester’s side, no doubt seeking his protection from the attacking garden hose. “I just had a thought. What if Bunnicula’s met up with one of his own kind? You know how they multiply, Harold.”

  “Well, I don’t really,” I replied. “But if they’re like everybody else these days, they probably use those little pocket calculators. I would, except my paws are too big. I hit all the numbers at once. So I have to do it the old way, and I never could get the hang of it. Let’s see, four times six is eighteen. Or is it thirty-two? Or—”

  Chester bopped me on the nose with his paw.

  “Ouch!”

  “Not that kind of multiplying, you twit.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m talking about reproduction.”

  I was aghast. “Shh,” I said, “not in front of the child.”

  “Oh, it’s all right, Uncle Harold,” said Howie, who’d overheard the whole conversation. “I know all about that stuff. And Pop is right, rabbits really do multiply like crazy.”

  “Right,” Chester said. “Let’s just hope we’re not too late. Come on.”

  Wondering how it was that Howie knew so much more about reproduction than barbecues or garden hoses, I lumbered off behind Chester. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t even hear him when he began yelling.

  “It’s him!” I made out at last. “It’s Bunnicula! Harold, get over here.” I ran to join Chester and Howie, who were huddled behind a bush. Chester was looking in the direction of the house next door. There on a porch railing perched a furry white animal. A shadow fell across it so I couldn’t completely make it out, but it did look an awful lot like our missing rabbit.

  “Grab him!” Chester commanded. “You’re the only one who can do it, Harold. Get him in your teeth and carry him on home.”

  “Oh, Chester,” I protested, “you know how I hate getting hair in my mouth. Besides, he looks so peaceful lying there like that. Couldn’t we come back and get him later?”

  “Later!? Later?!” Chester fairly shrieked. “Don’t you understand anything, Harold? Later may be too late. Get him now!”

  He pushed at my haunches, and I set off toward the porch.

  “Get him, Uncle Harold!” Howie cried.

  With a leap, I grabbed the sleeping rabbit in my mouth and took off down the street.

  “That’s it, Uncle Harold!” I heard Howie call out behind me. “Take the bunny and run!”

  I’m sorry, Bunnicula, I thought, I really didn’t want to do this. Hopefully, you’ll sleep through the whole thing, and when we get you home, I’ll tuck you into your little bed in your little cage and

  you’ll be nice and cozy and—

  That’s when I heard the woman scream.

  “Help! Help!”

  I looked over my shoulder. Howie and Chester were close behind. On the porch, where moments before the rabbit had been napping, stood a woman waving her arms in our direction.

  “Help! Someone! Police! He’s got my cat! My precious cat! My ... my ... Snowball!”

  Snowball! My mind reeled as I thought of Max’s scratched-up face.

  As best I could, I looked down at the object I was carrying in my mouth. Its eyes turned upward to meet mine. There was a gleam in them, a gleam that spelled trouble with a capital S-N-O-W-B-A-L-L.

  I gulped. Snowball hissed. The woman on the porch screamed.

  “Help!”

  You can say that again, lady, I thought. For both of us!

  An Unexpected fourney

  OH, WHY couldn’t you be a real snowball and melt? I thought as I raced down the street. The cat hanging from my jaws showed no signs of melting; rather, with his hair fluffed out in all directions, he seemed to be growing bigger with each passing second. Chester, I thought, I’m going to get you for this one, I really am. If I live. I looked around me, trying to figure out what to do next.

  Chester and Howie came up on my right.

  “Toss him!” Chester cried out as he moved into earshot.

  “I’ll take him, Uncle Harold,” Howie barked excitedly. “I’m not afraid of cats.”

  That’s because you haven’t lived long enough, kid, I thought.

  Behind me, Snowball’s owner, swinging a broom, was fast approaching. I looked to my right. Wide open street. To my left. Wide open lawn. No safe place to ditch the bristling cat.

  But just then, I noticed a mailman coming up the sidewalk in my direction. Behind him he pulled a cart. As I ran past, I flung Snowball into the mail-cart and hightailed it as fast as I could to the nearest parked car. Under I went. Chester and Howie were already cowering behind one of the wheels.

  We looked out to see envelopes and magazines and packages flying helter-skelter out of the cart and landing all over the sidewalk. Flashes of white fur passed into view from time to time as Snowball tried frantically to escape. Not knowing what else to do, the mailman stood by helplessly, his eyes wide in amazement, his mouth hanging open.

  Suddenly, all movement came to an abrupt halt.

  Then, two white ears crept up over the edge of the cart. The top of a head surfaced. Two dark eyes came into view. Two dark eyes ... staring right into mine. My heart sank. My stomach sank. Even my toenails sank. Doomed, I thought, I’m doomed.

  Just as Snowball was about to jump out and seal my fate, his owner swept up from behind and scooped him into her loving (and, fortunately for me, strong) arms. As she carried him off toward home, he looked back over her shoulder and shook a clenched paw in my direction.

  Riveted to the spot, I watched the mailman bend down and slowly pick up piece after piece of scattered mail.

  “Boy, did you see that stuff fly?” Howie whispered. “I guess that’s what they call ‘air mail,’ huh?”

  “Nice work, Chester,” I said after I’d caught my breath. My heart was still pounding like a jackhammer.

  “A small error of judgment,” Chester replied calmly. “Everyone’s entitled to one small error of judgment.”

  “Remind me to be comforted by that when Snowball uses my face as a scratching post,” I said.

  Chester regarded me coolly. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said, “a big dog like you afraid of a little kitty-cat? What kind of example are you setting for young Howie here?”

  I was about to set an example for young Howie by sitting on Chester when he suddenly scurried to the other side of the car.


  “Look!” Chester cried.

  Howie and I joined him and gazed across the street. There, on the opposite sidewalk, we saw what looked like dozens of feet moving down the block.

  “Where is everyone going?” Chester asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “What do you make of it?”

  “I’m not sure. But there’s something strange about the way those people are moving. Almost as if they were all going to the same place. Look, they’re crossing the road. Why?”

  “To get to the other side?” Howie suggested.

  Chester didn’t respond. He was too busy watching the people move off down the street.

  “What if ... what if ...” he said suddenly. “What if they’ve already fallen victim to Bunnicula and his zombie vegetables? Let’s follow them.”

  “Ernie,” a voice called out from behind us just as we were about to move out from under the car, “did you get those white vegetables that were out in the garden this morning?”

  Our ears perked up. We dashed to the other side and looked out from behind a wheel. A man was dumping lawn clippings into a big plastic garbage pail by the sidewalk. His wife was calling to him from the front porch of their house.

  “I sure did,” the man named Ernie replied to the woman’s question. “Wasn’t that the weirdest thing? I’ve never seen white vegetables before. Didn’t know what to think. Anyway, I put them in the pail with the weeds.”

  “We’ve got to find them,” Chester whispered urgently.

  “But Chester, I thought you wanted to follow that crowd of people.”

  “First things first,” he replied.

  The man picked up the full garbage pail and carried it to a pick-up truck parked in the driveway. I noticed that the truck contained several other pails filled with clippings.

  “I’m going to take this stuff down to the dump myself,” the man proclaimed. “No sense waiting for the sanitation men when there’s so much of it.”

  “Good idea,” his wife agreed. “Wait a minute. I’ll give you the garbage from the party last night. We may as well get rid of that at the same time.” She went inside the house as the man hoisted the garbage pail over the side of the truck.