Bunnicula

by Deborah Howe

  “What are they?” I asked.

  Chester smiled. “Lettuce and carrots,” he said. “White lettuce and carrots. I found them hidden behind his cage.”

  I was aghast. What did it all mean? Could Chester be right? Was this harmless looking little ball of fluff really a vampire? Just then, Chester let out a yelp.

  “Look,” he said, “the cage is empty again. Oh, we’re fools, we’re fools! We’ve let him get out of our sight. It’s your fault.”

  “My fault! You’re the one who took twenty minutes to sit down.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t knocked me off in the first place—”

  “Wait a minute, why are we arguing? Let’s find Bunnicula.”

  Just then, we heard a click in the kitchen.

  “Refrigerator,” I whispered. Chester nodded. We jumped down and moved cautiously to the kitchen door.

  “Sshhh,” Chester warned unnecessarily as we crept along, “don’t make any noise. We don’t want him to hear us coming.”

  “Obviously,” I retorted.

  The light went out under the door.

  “He must have closed the refrigerator,” Chester said. “Easy now.” We pushed the door open. The kitchen was dark. There was not a sound.

  “Pssst, Chester . . .”

  “What?”

  “I can’t see.”

  “I can. But I can’t see him.”

  “He’s not here.”

  There was a soft scamper across the linoleum, and we turned just in time to see a little white tail bounce out the door into the living room.

  “Drat! We’ve missed him. Come on, Harold, let’s see if we can catch up with him.” Chester started toward the door.

  “Wait, Chester, what’s that on the floor by the refrigerator?”

  He turned. This new object interested him more than following Bunnicula. “Watch out,” he said, “I’ll take care of this.” He slunk across the room slowly, muscles taut, eyes alert. When he was about six inches away, he stuck out his paw, closed his eyes, and batted at the object tentatively. I don’t think he made any contact.

  “Get closer,” I said.

  Chester’s eyes popped open. “Who’s the cat here?” he asked. “I know what I’m doing.” And he proceeded to bat the air three more times.

  “What is it?” I squealed, as my throat contracted in fear.

  “I don’t know yet, but whatever it is, it’s not alive.”

  “Oh boy, if I wait for you, we’ll be here all night.” I walked bravely to the object and sniffed it.

  “Well?” asked Chester.

  “Beats me.”

  Chester came closer. After a moment of close examination, he gasped. I jumped. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

  “Harold . . . ” Chester blurted.

  “What? What?”

  “It’s . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s . . .”

  “What is it, Chester?!”

  “It’s a white zucchini!”

  Five

  Chester Goes into His Act

  The next morning, I was awakened by a scream. “Robert! Robert, come down here right away. There’s something wrong in the kitchen!”

  For a moment, panic seized me. I thought she’d run out of dog food. But then I remembered the events of the previous evening.

  Mr. Monroe came bounding down the stairs. “Chester! Chester!” I cried. “Did you see Mr. Monroe? His face has turned white! It’s Bunnicula, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he said calmly, “it’s shaving cream, you idiot.”

  By now, the excitement in the kitchen was at full throttle. The table was covered with Bunnicula’s handiwork. There were white beans and white peas and white squash and white tomatoes and white lettuce and white zucchini.

  “What can it mean, Robert?” Mrs. Monroe was saying. “I’m getting worried. One tomato is a curiosity, but this is unheard of.”

  “There must be something wrong with our refrigerator. That’s it. It’s turning all the vegetables white.”

  “But look,” she said, “I left these tomatoes on the windowsill, and they’re white, too. And this squash I left in the bowl on the table.”

  At that moment, Pete and Toby came into the kitchen.

  “Holy cow! What’s going on?”

  “Hey! Maybe it’s a vegetable blight, Mom.”

  “Could that be, Robert? Did you ever hear of anything like that?”

  “Well . . . uh . . . no, actually . . . that is, I’ve heard of blight, but nothing like this.”

  Chester leaned my way. “This will take forever if we leave it up to them. Sometimes, human beings can be so slow.” I started to answer him, but he was heading for the table.

  “What about that friend of yours in the Agriculture Department?”

  “Oh, Tom Cragin?”

  “Could we call him and ask him if we’re doing something wrong?”

  “It’s DDT, Mom,” Peter interjected. “I know about this stuff. It’s because you buy vegetables that aren’t organic.”

  “All vegetables are organic, Peter,” Mrs. Monroe replied.

  “That’s not what my teacher says. See, Toby, I told you this would happen. They’re using chemicals on our food, and if you’re not careful, you’ll turn white, too.”

  “Like Dad?”

  “Robert, couldn’t you take that shaving cream off your face?”

  “Oh yes, of course. Where’s my towel? I know I brought it down with me.”

  For that matter, where was Chester? I’d seen him going toward the table, but I’d lost track of him listening to all that talk about DDT. I just hoped they didn’t use any of that stuff where they grew chocolate cupcakes.

  “Pete, did you take my towel?”

  “Why would I take your towel, Dad? I don’t shave.”

  Just then, the door swung open. I could not believe my eyes. There was Chester, with Mr. Monroe’s towel draped across his back and tied under his neck like a cape. That was strange enough, but on his face was an expression that sent chills down my spine. His eyes were wide and staring. The corners of his mouth were pulled back in an evil grimace. His teeth were bared and gleaming in the morning light. He cackled menacingly and threw back his head as if he were laughing at all of us. I thought he’d completely lost his mind.

  “There’s my towel. What’s the matter, Chester, were you cold?” Mr. Monroe bent down to take the towel from Chester. Before he could lay his hands on it, Chester flipped over onto his back, closed his eyes and folded his paws over his chest. It was a hideous sight. He opened his eyes wide. With paws outstretched, he . . . slowly . . . lifted . . . his . . . head . . . his eyes glazed and vacant. Soon the upper half of his body followed, all in one smooth flow, until he was in a sitting position.

  “Hey, Dad, did you leave your brandy glass out last night? Chester is acting a little weird.”

  “Well, son, cats are funny creatures . . .”

  I glanced at Chester. He wasn’t laughing.

  “Psst, Chester. What are you up to?”

  “I’m a vampire, you dolt. Can’t you tell? I’m trying to warn them.”

  “Well, it’s not working. You’d better think of something else.” Chester frowned, apparently deep in thought.

  “. . . so you see, Toby,” Mr. Monroe was explaining, “all cats are as individual as all people. Maybe he just wants to get our attention. Isn’t that right, kitty-cat?” Ordinarily, Chester would have left the room upon being called “kitty-cat,” but he was lost in thought.

  “Come on, Chester, give me back my towel.” Mr. Monroe moved toward Chester. Chester’s eyes lit up. He looked at me and smiled. I sensed I was not going to like what he had in mind. I was toying with the notion of slinking under the table when Chester fixed me with his eyes. How deep they were, like black pools. I felt myself floating, lost in them, my will no longer my own. I felt an inexplicable urge to murmur “Yes, Master,” when he walked slowly, steadily toward me. As he drew nearer, I foun
d myself unable to move. He stopped before me, never taking his gaze from me, and lunged.

  “YEOW!!!”

  “Mom, Chester bit Harold on the neck!”

  “Aw, that wasn’t a real bite, was it, Chester? That was a love bite. Isn’t that cute?”

  Love bite, my foot. That hurt!

  “Chester, what’s the matter with you?” I sputtered. “Do I look like a tomato?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter anyway, Harold. They don’t understand. How can human beings read the same books I do and still be so thick?”

  Our conversation was interrupted. Mrs. Monroe picked Chester up and cuddled him. I was praying she would not add insult to injury by kissing his nose, which he hates more than anything.

  “Poor Chester, do you need a little love? Do you know what I’m going to do, you big ball of fuzz, you?” Oh, oh. I could tell what was coming. “I’m going to kiss you on your little nose.” Yep, I could tell that was coming, all right. Chester knew better than to resist. He went limp in Mrs. Monroe’s arms. Mr. Monroe took his towel off Chester.

  “I still don’t know why he’s wearing my towel,” he said.

  “I think he must be cold, dear. Here’s your towel. Why don’t you get his kitty sweater . . .” Chester looked ill. “. . . and he can wear that all day.”

  As Chester was being buttoned into his bright yellow sweater (with little purple mice in cowboy hats all over it), Mr. Monroe said, “What about those vegetables? Shall I speak to Tom Cragin?”

  “Yes, dear,” Mrs. Monroe said, “why don’t you? I’m sure there’s some explanation. In the meantime, I’ll change markets. To tell you the truth, I’m really much more worried about Chester. We’d better keep our eye on him.”

  Chester and I did not speak until late afternoon. I was busy nursing my neck, and Chester was busy hiding under the sofa, too embarrassed to be seen. When we did speak at last, it was a brief exchange.

  “Hey, Chester,” I called when he finally crawled out from under, “we don’t have to worry about any vampire bunnies anymore. All you have to do is stand outside his cage in that sweater, and he’ll laugh himself to death.”

  Chester was not amused. “That’s right, make fun. All of you. No one understands. I tried to warn them, and they wouldn’t heed. Now, I’m going to take matters into my own hands.”

  Whereupon, Chester and his sixteen purple mice went into the kitchen for dinner.

  Six

  Harold Helps Out

  That night, I had an uneasy sleep. Strange noises emanated from downstairs. It sounded like toenails were clicking back and forth on the floor. It must be Bunnicula making his midnight run, I thought, although I’d never known him to make a sound. And I smelled the funniest odor in the air—something familiar, though I couldn’t place it. As the night progressed, it grew stronger and stronger until finally it tickled my nose and I sneezed myself awake. I jumped off Toby’s bed, still sniffling, and headed down the stairs for the living room to find Chester, to see if he could smell it, too.

  The odor grew even stronger as I approached the living room. Standing in the doorway was Chester, a strange pendant hanging from his neck.

  “Phew, Chester,” I said, “what are you wearing that awful thing for? It smells!”

  “Of course it smells,” he replied. “Here, I made one for you, too. Put it on.”

  “Are you kidding? That thing smells like garlic.”

  “It is garlic,” Chester stated matter-of-factly.

  “Why are you wearing garlic?” I asked, thinking that by this time Chester was capable of anything. As we walked into the living room, I tripped on another piece of garlic lying in the doorway.

  “Careful,” said Chester, “watch your step.”

  I surveyed the room and saw that it was strewn with garlic. On the doorways . . . over the windows . . . and around Bunnicula’s cage. The poor little fellow had buried his nose as far as possible under his blanket.

  I was about to follow his example and return to Toby’s bed to bury my nose under the blankets when Chester grabbed my tail with his teeth.

  “You’re not leaving this room until you put this on,” he grumbled at me. I think that’s what he said. I wasn’t sure because he had my tail in his mouth.

  “It’s not polite to talk with your mouth full, Chester. Drop that tail.” Meanwhile, my eyes were beginning to water.

  “Listen,” Chester snapped at me (fortunately letting go of my tail first), “the book said to use garlic.”

  “What book?” I asked. “The Joy of Cooking?”

  Chester continued, “The Mark of the Vampire says garlic renders vampires immobile.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they can’t go anywhere if there’s garlic around.”

  “Well, I’ve got news for you, Chester. I can’t go anywhere either. The smell is killing me—”

  “But you’ve got to put it on; it says so in the book. If you don’t put it on, I’ll put it on for you.”

  “Doe, Chester,” I said as my nose suddenly and involuntarily closed, “I’be leaving dis roob right dow.” And I did.

  I was so sick to my stomach from the aroma that I decided to spend the early morning hours outdoors. As dawn approached, it seemed that it would be a peaceful day. The sky was clear, the birds were singing, and I felt contented after my difficult night just to be lying in the grass, feeling the ladybugs crawl up my ears. Suddenly, the calm was broken. Strange piercing screams came from the area of the kitchen. Not again, I thought. What’s turned white now?

  As it happened, it was Chester. There in the sink, lathered with soap, was the feline detective, yelling his head off. Mrs. Monroe was scrubbing him vigorously and, from the sound of her voice, was in the middle of a long lecture.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Chester. You never played with garlic before. I thought you hated the smell of it, and here you’ve gotten it all over yourself. Stop wriggling, you’ll get soap in your eyes. If you want to chew on something, I’ll get you some catnip. But stay out of my herbs!” Then she rinsed him off, rubbed him with a towel, and plunked him down in front of the stove to finish drying.

  “Shut the door,” he hissed at me. “I’m freezing. That silly woman, doesn’t she know cats don’t get baths?”

  “What do you mean? I get baths all the time,” I said, closing the door with my back foot.

  “That’s because you’re too dumb to bathe yourself. Cats always bathe themselves, it’s a rule. Everyone knows that.”

  “Well, at least it smells nice in here again.” I sniffed as I settled down next to Chester by the stove. “And it’s all toasty warm here in the kitchen.”

  “Sure it smells nice again,” he said, “but now the house isn’t safe anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, getting closer.

  “I mean, it worked last night. The garlic worked. No more vegetables turned white, did they?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “That means Bunnicula didn’t get out of his cage last night.”

  “Maybe he was just tired,” I said, “or maybe he was full.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied. “It was the garlic. He couldn’t leave his cage. But tonight he’ll be free to roam again, and I’ve got to find a way to stop him that isn’t smelly.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Monroe were hurrying in and out of the room, stepping over us, late for work. Mrs. Monroe yelled up to Toby, “Don’t forget to take the steak out of the freezer when you get home today, Toby, and leave it on the table to defrost. And this time, remember to put a plate under it.”

  Chester’s ears perked up. “Of course!” he said. “That’s what I’ll do.” And he strolled past me with a knowing smile. Mrs. Monroe turned off the stove and left the room. It was too much for me to figure out, so I went to sleep on the nice, warm kitchen floor.

  I was awakened by a bite on the ear. Chester was sitting by me, looking very impatient.

  “Boy, nothing wake
s you up,” he said. “I’ve been yelling and poking at you for ten minutes.”

  “I was dreaming,” I answered defensively, “about a place where there weren’t any cats around to bother nice dogs and wake them up when they needed their rest.”

  “You can finish sleeping later,” he said crisply. “Right now, you have to help me.”

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “Get Bunnicula out of the cage.”

  I sprang back. “Get him out of the cage?! I thought that was what you didn’t want. I thought you said he was dangerous. What if he attacks me?”

  “Aren’t you ashamed?” Chester replied. “Afraid of a harmless little bunny?”

  “Harmless? I thought you said he was a threat to this house and everyone in it. Isn’t that what you said? Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about all this time?”

  “He is a threat, but only at night. During the day he’s just a very sleepy rabbit, and that’s why we have to do it now, while the sun is still up. Follow me,” he said. “There isn’t much time. Toby stayed down here forever, and the others will be home soon. Boy, you must have been tired, Harold. You slept through lunch.”

  I followed Chester into the living room. My heart was pounding as he unlocked the cage door with his paw. (It looked as if he’d had years of experience opening locks.)

  The door swung open; Bunnicula was sleeping peacefully. He did, however, look a little green around the gills, probably from the garlic. I was just wondering how a rabbit could have gills when Chester said, “Okay, Harold, do your stuff while I get what I need from the kitchen.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do? I can’t read your mind.”

  “Get him out of the cage and onto the floor, and I’ll be right back,” Chester said.

  What? What?

  “What?” I verbalized. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Use your head,” he answered. And he was gone. Looking at the cage, I realized that was precisely what I would have to do.