Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

by James Howe

  “Now, Chester,” I said. “I think you’re getting a little carried—”

  “You want proof, Harold? Is that what you want?”

  “I’d rather have a sandwich,” I told him. I’m always a little peckish around midnight.

  Chester grabbed another book.

  “Not again,” I mumbled.

  “Fine, I won’t read it,’ Chester said. “The writing is garbage, anyway.”

  Howie gasped at this literary assessment.

  “Don’t Go in the Yard,” Chester went on. “Know it, Howie?”

  “Know it? It’s a classic!”

  “And do you remember what’s in the yard?”

  “Grass?” Howie guessed. “Buried bones?”

  “Think, Howie.”

  “Oh, right. Birds. Wait, not just any birds. Crows!”

  “That’s right, Howie. Crows. Bad crows. Not nice crows. Really mean crows. And who, I wonder, do those bad, not nice, really mean crows go after? Surely not Skippy Sapworthy.”

  Howie thought for a moment. And then a shiver went through him. “No,” he said, “you’re right, Pop. It isn’t Skippy Sapworthy. It’s his dog, Binky-Boy. He’s transformed into a scarecrow!”

  “The pets,” Chester intoned. “It’s always the pets.”

  THREE

  Suddenly There Came a Tapping

  The next three weeks passed uneventfully, unless you want to count Chester’s chronic state of hysteria as an event. I will spare you the details, because to be honest, I couldn’t bear having to relive them myself. Suffice it to say that he spent the wee hours of many a night at Mr. Monroe’s computer doing what he insisted on calling “research,” creating pie charts and spreadsheets on such topics as “The Different Methods Used in the Flesh-Crawlers Series to Transform Household Pets into Unspeakable Monstrosities” and “Common Denominators Among Crows, Authors of Juvenile Horror Fiction, and Kitchen Appliances.” I never really understood that one. I think it had something to do with the “fact” (Chester’s word) that most of the household pets in the FleshCrawlers books were transformed into unspeakable monstrosities with the aid of kitchen appliances.

  By the time our guests were to arrive, Chester was so tightly strung you could have used him to hang out laundry. I’m not sure how he thought his “research” was going to be of any help, but he insisted it was crucial preparation.

  The other members of the household were busy preparing as well. Every day Pete came home from school with reports of all that was being done to get ready for the famous author’s visit. He also reported that no one was making fun of him any longer for liking M. T. Graves. From the way he told it, winning this contest had turned him into some kind of hero. Of course, Pete often talks about himself in heroic terms, so it was hard to know if what he was saying was true or not. Kyle was back to being Pete’s best friend and had even made the welcome banner for our front yard. Pete and Toby were rereading the entire FleshCrawlers series, which had Howie running back and forth between their rooms, trying to keep up.

  Mr. and Mrs. Monroe were busy getting the house ready and worrying about having everything just right for their important visitor. Apparently they’d been given some specific—and rather puzzling—instructions.

  “I’ve never known a houseguest to e-mail a list of requests before,” I heard Mr. Monroe say to his wife one day as he was making a dessert. I just happened to be in the kitchen at the time in case any assistance was needed in protecting the floor from falling ingredients.

  “And such odd requests, too,” said Mrs. Monroe. “He asks for Bunnicula to stay in his room with him.”

  “That’s not so odd,” Mr. Monroe said as he stirred something that was making my salivary glands salivate. “After all, he said he was interested in spending some quality time with the pets.”

  “Yes, but what about this?” Mrs. Monroe went on, consulting a piece of paper. “‘Salad—without dressing—to be available at all hours. And a plate of lettuce to be placed by my bed for a midnight snack.’”

  Mr. Monroe laughed. “Well, I can’t say it’s my idea of a midnight snack, but to each his own. I guess he’s just a bit eccentric.”

  Or out of his mind, I could imagine Chester saying. But then who was Chester to talk? He’s been out of his mind so long he’d need a map to find his way back.

  On the afternoon M. T. Graves was to arrive, I was deeply engrossed in preparations of my own when I felt a tapping on my eyelids.

  “Chester?” I said. “If that’s you, stop it at once. I need my sleep.”

  “You always need your sleep,” Chester replied, even while continuing his annoying habit of knocking at my eyelids to wake me up. I hate when he does this, especially when it’s been a while since his nails have been clipped.

  “Yes, but I need it even more now,” I told him, being careful not to sound too alert. “It’s important to be well rested when you have guests coming.”

  “This is how you’re preparing? By napping?”

  I nodded, which quickly led to nodding off. Chester picked up the pace of his eyelid batting. “Well, I’ve been preparing, too,” he told me.

  “Please,” I begged, “no more Venn diagrams.”

  Chester snorted. “I’ve been engaged in serious research,” he said.

  “You’ve been engaged in serious research for three weeks, Chester, and all we’ve learned so far is to stay away from the toaster oven. Well, it just so happens that I’ve been engaged in research, too. I was dreaming about bacon, and I was about to determine how many slices I could eat before getting a tummyache. I was up to one hundred and fourteen.”

  Suddenly Chester was on top of me, playing my eyeballs like a set of drums.

  “Stop!” I woofed, shaking him off and opening my poor, battered eyes. I couldn’t believe how bright the room was, considering that the sky outside was decidedly gloomy. “You didn’t happen to bring any coffee with you, did you?”

  Chester glared at me. “I’m trying to be serious here, Harold,” he said.

  “I just thought—”

  “Yes, well, think about this,” he said. I sensed he was not about to ask if I wanted cinnamon with my cappuccino. “I did some more research on M. T. Graves last night, and I’m telling you, the guy is deranged.”

  “That’s nice. It will give you something in common.”

  “Go ahead, Harold. Mock, ridicule, sneer, deride, disdain...”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. Chester has a fondness for the thesaurus that can be exhausting. “Why is he deranged? And please tell me your answer doesn’t involve a spreadsheet.”

  “One,” Chester began, consulting the spreadsheet in his head, “his favorite fish is the piranha. When asked why, he said—and I quote—‘They are good eaters, leaving neither crumbs nor evidence behind.’ ‘Evidence,’ Harold? A curious word, don’t you think? Unless, of course, one is thinking about . . . crime!

  “Two, he was raised by his grandparents because his parents were never home. Why, you may ask?”

  Or not, I thought.

  “Because they were spies! The only contact Graves had with them during his entire childhood was a single postcard sent from a dungeon in Bora-Bora!”

  I shook my head, hoping to give the appearance of amazement while in fact merely attempting to stay awake.

  “And get this,” Chester went on. “When asked how he likes to spend his free time, he replied, I enjoy baking, playing with my chemistry set, and training my bats. Oh, and I do like to have a go at sorcery from time to time.’ Sorcery, Harold! Chemistry experiments! Bat training! What more do you need to know?”

  “What sorts of things does he like to bake?” I inquired.

  Chester didn’t answer me. He was on a roll and there was no getting him off it. “And what about this crow of his?” he ranted. “Do we think it’s a coincidence that he’s named for Edgar Allan Poe?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Edgar Allan Poe, the greatest writer of horror fiction of all tim
e. Poe also wrote poems. Surely you have heard of his poem ‘The Raven.’”

  Before I could ask him why he was calling me Shirley, Chester narrowed his eyes and launched into a throaty recitation:

  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

  As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

  “‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

  Only this and nothing more.”

  “I like the part about napping,” I told him. “And the tapping part reminds me of a certain someone who has a problem with a certain other someone getting his minimum daily requirement of sleep. But I can’t say I really see your point.”

  “My point,” Chester snapped, “is that in the poem the visitor on the other side of the door is a raven, Harold! Which is more or less a crow. And this raven has only one thing to say.”

  “Corn?” I conjectured.

  “‘Nevermore,’” said Chester. “To every question, every plea, every desperate cry, the answer is always the same: ‘Nevermore.’ A word that, like the raven itself, serves as an omen foretelling a desolate descent into darkness.”

  “That’s some word,” I commented as Howie raced into the room and put an end to our conversation.

  “M. T. Graves will be here any minute!” he exclaimed. “How do I look?”

  Chester peered at Howie through half-closed lids. “You look like a wirehaired dachshund puppy,” he said. “How do you think you look?”

  “Is my hair okay?”

  “No, Howie, you’d better call your stylist for an emergency trim.”

  Howie began to panic. “Really, Pop? I don’t know if she can fit me in. I think it’s her afternoon to go to her shiatsu massage therapist. Or maybe she takes her Shih Tzu for a sausage hairpiece. It’s a little hard to understand what she says sometimes. I think it’s because she chews gum and she’s got that blower thing going right next to my ear and—”

  “YOUR HAIR LOOKS FINE!” Chester shouted.

  For the record, Howie does not have a stylist. What he has is a very active imagination.

  All at once there was the most alarming racket coming from our backyard. It sounded like the caws of a thousand crows. When we ran to look out the dining room window, my speculation was confirmed. There, filling the yard like a black cloud, were more crows than I’d ever seen in one place, screeching raucously as they swooped from tree to tree. Their presence made the dark sky even darker.

  Howie’s eyes grew as wide as water bowls. “Don’t go in the yard,” I heard him mutter as the Monroes came running in.

  “What’s going on?” Toby asked. I felt his hand reach for the top of my head.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Mr. Monroe.

  The din outside was so deafening we didn’t even hear the other alarming noise at first. Who knows how long it had been going on?

  Then it seemed we all heard it at the same time, turning as one and staring wide-eyed at the front door. From the other side of the door, there came a tapping.

  “We should answer it,” said Mrs. Monroe.

  But no one moved.

  FOUR

  A Fine Murder of Crows

  “It’s M. T. Graves,’ Pete said at last. “I’ll get it.” He was trying to sound brave, but the tremor in his voice gave him away.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Monroe said, looking a little dazed. “M. T. Graves. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”

  The tapping grew more urgent as Pete made his way to the door. He reached for the handle and slowly began to turn it. The shrieking of the crows and the beating of their frantic wings—not to mention Howie’s rapid-fire panting next to me—provided an eerie soundtrack.

  The handle turned. The latch clicked. The door creaked open.

  And there on the other side stood .. . Kyle.

  “What took you so long? Is he here yet? When are you going to get your doorbell fixed? What’s up with all the crows in your backyard? Oh, hi, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe. What’s everybody staring at? Why does Howie look like he’s going to pass out? Did you know your cat’s eyes are bugging out of his head? So, is M. T. Graves here or what?”

  Kyle likes to talk.

  Pete opened his mouth to answer his friend when he suddenly fell speechless. We all did. Even Howie stopped his panting. For there, behind Kyle, loomed a tall—a very tall—figure in black. Black pupils stared down at us from eyes that bulged beneath bushy black eyebrows. Long black hair fell on either side of an ashen white face to meet a black cape that was draped around stooped shoulders. On one of those shoulders sat a large black bird, who regarded us with bright, unblinking eyes.

  “That’s a . . . fine . . . murder ... of crows,” the gigantic figure said in a low voice that stopped and started and rumbled like distant thunder.

  “A m-m-murder of crows, did you say?” Mrs. Monroe sputtered. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never heard Mrs. Monroe sputter. She’s a lawyer. Lawyers don’t sputter.

  “A flock of crows is also called a ‘murder,’” Mr. Monroe explained. “Isn’t that right?”

  The tall, spooky-looking man nodded as Chester muttered, “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Please come in,” said Mrs. Monroe, now sputter-free. “Forgive our lack of manners. This racket is unnerving.”

  Kyle tilted his head back in order to gaze up at the stranger who was entering the house. “Are you M. T. Graves?” he asked. “Is that the real Edgar Allan Crow up there? He won’t peck out my eyes, will he? Did you notice the welcome sign out front? I made it. I’m sorry it’s not better. I’m not very good at art stuff. I’m Kyle. I don’t live here.”

  “Hello, Kyle,” the tall man rumbled. Turning to Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, he asked, “May I. .. sit?”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Monroe. “You’ve had a long trip. Do you have any bags?”

  Lowering himself with a heavy sigh into Chester’s chair (well, the chair that Chester calls his), the man in black waved vaguely toward the front door. “They’re ... in the car,” he said. “Might I have a glass of ... water?”

  “I’ll get it!” Pete volunteered.

  He was out of the room and back with a glass of water before you could say, “Behold the powers of darkness.” Unless of course you were Chester, in which case you could say it twice.

  “Here you go, Mr. Graves,” said Pete.

  “It’s Tanner,” said the stranger, offering his companion a few sips before downing the remainder of the glass in a single swallow.

  “But I thought—”

  “M. T. Graves is my nom de plume.”

  “Your what?” Kyle asked.

  “My pen name, the name I use for writing. My real name is Miles Tanner.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, I’m Pete. And this is my mom and dad. And you met Kyle, and that runt over there is Toby.”

  “Hey!”

  “Well, you are!”

  “Boys!”

  Pete rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Oh, and these are our pets. You want to meet them, right? Because you said in your letter ...”

  Scowling, Miles Tanner clenched his hands into fists and pulled himself back into the chair. It wasn’t quite the enthusiastic greeting I was expecting. “Yes ... certainly . .. but perhaps another—”

  Pete grabbed my collar and dragged me over to the brown velvet armchair. “This is Harold,” he told the author. “Be careful he doesn’t drool on you.”

  Before I could register a complaint, Pete went on, “And that’s Chester. Watch out for him. He’s totally ...” He put his finger near his ear and made a circular motion.

  Chester hissed.

  “See?” Pete said.

  Howie couldn’t stand it any longer. He began yipping a mile a minute. Loosely translated, his yips went something like this: Hey! What about me? I’m your
biggest fan in the entire universe! I’ve read every one of your books! Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb is the best book in the entire universe! I want to be just like you when I grow up! Don’t you think I’d make an excellent character for one of your books? Aren’t I cute? Hey! What about me?

  Miles Tanner’s only response to Howie’s tirade was to cover his ears and say, “Make him stop . . . please.”

  Crushed, Howie stopped yipping immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Monroe. “He’s a puppy. He’s easily excited.”

  “That’s Howie for you,” said Pete. “I’ll bet he was barking at Edgar. He’s got this thing about crows.”

  “Pete,” said Mr. Monroe, “why don’t you take the animals out of the room for a few minutes ? Let’s give our guest a chance to catch his breath.”

  “Well, I never!” Chester exclaimed after Pete had unceremoniously dumped us in the kitchen. “‘Take the animals out of the room’? Ex-cu-u-u-use me!”

  “M. T. Graves hates me,” Howie moaned. “Why did I have to yip so much? And why did Pete have to say I was barking at Edgar?”

  “I’m telling you,” Chester said, “there is something wrong with this picture. We’ve got to find out what it is.”

  “What are you talking about now?” I asked.

  “What am I talking about now? What am I talking about now? What am I talking about now? What am I talking—”

  “I believe that was the question.”

  “What I’m talking about is, this is the man who is supposed to love animals so much. But look at him! He couldn’t care less—except for that weird bird on his shoulder. What a creepy twosome they make! I’m telling you, he just wants to use us, Harold. We’ve got to be on our toes the whole time he’s in this house, do you understand?”

  “I can’t be on my toes the whole time, Pop,” Howie whined. “I’ll tip over.”