by James Howe
“They followed them across Hungary and Austria, through Switzerland and France, and wherever they encountered the race of rabbits Bella and Boris had left behind, they destroyed them. By the time the men arrived on England’s shores, there were no vampire rabbits left... none, that is, but Bella, Boris and the little one without a name.
“One night, shortly before dawn, Diabolicus was reading a bedtime story to Hans and Fritz. Hans held the tiny rabbit in his lap, stroking its head as he listened to his new father’s voice. Suddenly, they heard Erda’s footsteps racing madly up the stairs. ‘Hurry,’ she cried out breathlessly. ‘Hurry, master! They’re coming!’
“ ‘Get hold of yourself, woman,’ said Diabolicus. ‘Who’s coming?’
“The peasants from Kasha-Varnishkes. They’re carrying torches. They’re crying, “The monster must be destroyed!” Oh, master, we must leave at once.’
“With a sense of déjà vu, Diabolicus ran to get Bella and Boris, while hurrying the boys and Erda to the carriage behind the house. ‘Once it is daylight and we are asleep in our boxes of dirt,’ he said, ‘the horses will know where to carry us.’
“Their escape plan seemed perfect. But just as they were about to depart, Boris leaped from his master’s arms and scampered back to the house. Diabolicus ran after him.
“ ‘Where are you going, Papa?’ cried Fritz. ‘We can’t leave without you.’”
“Still a wimp,” Dawg commented.
“ ‘I shall return,’ Diabolicus called out. He chased Boris through an open door and was gone from sight.
“Now, whether Diabolicus ever reached Boris we will never know, for no sooner had he set foot in the house than it erupted in flames.
“The innkeeper from Kasha-Varnishkes wiped a tear from his eye, convinced that his sons were now lost to him forever. And, of course, they were . . . just not in the way he thought. Had he turned away from the blazing carnage, he would have seen a black carriage disappearing into the forest. Two boys, one clutching a tiny rabbit, were taking a last look at their home, their England. They were headed for a new life, a new land. They were headed for America.”
“America?” I said. “How’d they get to America?
“Well, it just so happened,’ said Chester, “that Diabolicus had prepared for an emergency such as this one. He had booked passage under an assumed name on the Q.E. II, thus enabling Erda, Fritz, and Hans to board the ship one November night and never look back.
“They settled in their new country, keeping to themselves, always apart from the others. They saved wisely, invested in the stock market, and, in time, their cash flow was sufficient to allow them to construct a duplicate of their original home, an American House of Dr.E.A.D. They lived a quiet life. And then one day their quiet life was destroyed.
“Bella and her baby rabbit escaped through an open window. We don’t know what happened to Bella, but we know of course what became of the little one without a name.”
“He came to live with a family called the Monroes,” I said. “And they named him Bunnicula.”
“Right.”
“And The House of Dr.E.A.D.?” I asked.
Chester turned his head toward the house in the clearing. Three sets of eyes followed his. “You’re looking at it,” he said. “Fritz and Hans live there still, under other names, no doubt. Erda, though she is no longer called that, is their housekeeper. And somewhere, high in a tower room, there is a laboratory, the mirror image of one in Kasha-Varnishkes. The Transylvania twins will one day continue the experiments begun by their adopted father. They are waiting, waiting for Bunnicula.”
The night was still. No one spoke for the longest time. Then, Howie said, “A hare-raising tale, Pop.”
Dawg started to chuckle, but his chuckle turned quickly to a snort, and the snort into a snore. He was sound asleep. Moments later, Howie was sleeping too.
“Now’s our chance,” Chester said. “If we’re not too late, we may still be able to save the Monroes.”
And those were the last words I heard.
[ EIGHT ]
Dawg Gone! (And That’s Not All)
HOW WE MANAGED to sleep that night I will never know. It may have been from sheer exhaustion, or perhaps it was the terror instilled in us by Chester’s words, but no sooner had he finished his story than sleep moved in quickly and efficiently, like a thief in the night, to rob us of our wakefulness. Even Chester slept, although he confessed to me when he woke that he had not slept easily.
I knew what he meant. I have never had such nightmares.
In one, I was lost in a woods. From all around me, I heard rustling, scampering, someone—or something—moving about. Every time I ran toward the sounds, they would disappear and start again from another part of the forest. I ran and ran, first toward them, then away, never knowing who or what was making them, always frightened they would find me before I could find them.
It was a different sound that woke me shortly before dawn—the sound of rain. I listened for a time to its patter on the leaves above me, my brain too foggy to make sense of where I was or why I should be afraid. I just knew that I was getting wet, and that I was afraid.
“What a night,” I heard Chester say beside me. “They were all around us, Harold.”
“Who?” I said, yawning loudly.
“The spirits. Didn’t you hear them?”
I thought for a moment. “I heard sounds,” I said. “Do you mean they could have been—”
“Of course,” said Chester. “‘The fifth of May is Saint George’s Day. When midnight tolls, the devil has sway.’”
“And while the cat’s asleep, the dog runs away,” I added.
“What do you mean?”
I nodded toward the spot where Howie and Dawg had fallen asleep the night before. Howie was opening his eyes. He was alone.
“Dawg gone!” he exclaimed.
“Just as I thought,” said Chester. “He merely pretended to sleep. Oh, what fools we’ve been. Why couldn’t we have stayed awake!”
“What is it, Pop?” Howie asked, quickly on his feet and at our side. “Did Dawg do something wrong?”
“Not in your eyes, certainly,” Chester replied. He too was on his feet now, pacing nervously. “It all fits into place, just as I suspected. Harold, get up.”
I stretched lazily. “Do I have to?” I asked.
“Do you ever want to see your family again?” he retorted. “Alive?”
I bounded to my feet. “Is it Bud and Spud?” I asked nervously. “Have they done something to the Monroes?”
Howie started to sniffle. “Maybe they know about Bunnicula,” he said. “Maybe they’ve kidnapped the Monroes to force them to give back Bunnicula!”
“I think you’re confusing things,” I told Howie. “It was Fritz and Hans who wanted Bunnicula, not Bud and Spud. Besides, that story was make-believe.’ ‘
“Hah!” “Hah!” Chester snorted. “Woe unto you who believeth not.”
“On the contrary,” I said. “Woe unto me who has believethed you too many times. How could that story be real, Chester? And where did you hear it in the first place?”
Chester paused long enough to bathe a paw. An evasive tactic, if ever I’d seen one. “My sources are confidential,” he said at last. It was my turn to snort. “Besides, that story doesn’t matter right now. What matters is the fate of the Monroes. I believe that Bud and Spud and Dawg were the evil spirits in these woods last night. I believe that Dawg purposely got us lost and wore us out so we’d be out of his masters’ way all night. I believe that Bud and Spud had harmful intentions regarding the Monroes. I believe we may be too late.”
“And woe until you who believeth not, Uncle Harold,” said Howie, beginning to cry in earnest.
I confess I felt my own eyes dampening. “I hope for all our sakes that you’re wrong, Chester,’ I said. “Otherwise, we’ll. . . we’ll be orphans. And I’m too old to be an orphan!”
“We have to get back to camp, Harold,” Chester sai
d. “Now!”
“There’s only one problem,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s pouring.” The drenched leaves above our heads were no longer protecting us. Even though I’ve never cared for the smell of wet dog hair, it wasn’t that that concerned me as much as the difficulty of tracking in the rain. “If Dawg went back to camp,” I told Chester, “I would ordinarily be able to follow his scent. But I’m afraid this fresh rain has wiped out that possibility.”
“Rats,” Chester muttered. “Well, we’ll just have to find our way back as best we can.”
We were all set to start out when Howie cried, “Look, Uncle Harold! Look, Pop! He’s back!”
There, winding his way through the trees in our direction, was Dawg.
“DID YOU HEAR all the commotion?” he asked when he reached us. “I tried to follow it, but the ground was too wet and I lost the trail. Boy, the rain’s been coming down for hours. You guys woulda slept through anything.”
“And probably did,” said Chester, under his breath. “You been up long, Dawg?” he asked.
“A couple hours. Chester, did you know you whistle when you sleep?”
Seeing the look in Chester’s eye, I jumped in before he could respond. “Uh, the longer we stand here,” I pointed out, “the wetter we get. How about taking us back to camp, Dawg?”
“That’s just what I was going to do,” said Dawg. “I was about to wake you, but then I heard the noise and took off after it. Like I say, I lost it.”
Chester regarded Dawg suspiciously. “Have you lost your memory concerning the whereabouts of camp as well?”
“Nah. It’s just down through the woods apiece. You fellas all set to head back?”
“How interesting,” said Chester, “that you know the way so clearly this morning when you couldn’t have found it last night to save your life. Or anybody else’s.”
Dawg gave Chester a puzzled look. “I wasn’t trying to find camp last night,” he said. “I was trying to find the house. I got lost. Don’t you believe me?”
Chester said nothing.
Dawg’s puzzled look was replaced by one of admiration. “You know, Chester,” he said, “that was some story you told last night. It really scared me. I mean it put me to sleep and all. But did I have dreams!” The scar on his jowl glistened as he turned to lead us back to camp.
Dreams played on my mind as I followed along. We had all heard sounds in the night. Were they real or were they nightmares? Were Chester’s fears just dreams of an over-vivid imagination, or was it possible that the spirit of evil was a reality with different names—and three of those names were Bud, Spud and Dawg?
What would we find, I asked myself, when we returned to camp? The rain was letting up now. It was starting to get light. Would the Monroes be stirring in their tent, surprised and happy to see us coming home? Would Toby run out and throw his arms around my neck and tell me how he’d worried about me all night long? Would Mr. Monroe pat my head and scratch the spot between my ears? Would Mrs. Monroe wipe me down with a big, soft towel?
“There it is!” I heard Dawg call out. In the distance, I saw the campsite. And all my thoughts turned into dreams.
It was deserted. The Monroes were gone. And so were Bud and Spud.
We ran down the slope past the charred remains of a fire. The Monroes’ tent, a tarp once held up by poles and clothesline, had collapsed and was now a muddy landscape of canvas peaks and puddled valleys. I sniffed beneath it and was overcome by the scent of wet rubber and mildew. I thought I detected the odor of Mr. Monroe’s sour balls (cherry, I think) and Pete’s socks, as well, but those faint aromas were mere traces, shadows of another time darkening the doorways of my nasal passages.
“Boy, they sure must have left in a hurry,” Howie said. His words were somewhat garbled by the piece of clothing he carried in his mouth. As he came closer, I recognized it as one of Toby’s T-shirts.
“Where’d you find that?” I asked.
“Over by that log,” Howie said, dropping the T-shirt. “And look, Uncle Harold, it’s ripped.”
Chester’s eyes grew wide. “A struggle,” he said.
“Nonsense,” I said, not wanting to believe what my eyes were telling me. “The Monroes aren’t here because . . . because . . . because they’re somewhere else.”
“I love your mind, Harold,” said Chester. “Let’s take that logic a little further, shall we? Their tent is collapsed, their belongings are strewn about the place, their clothes are torn, everywhere you look there’s—”
“Blood!”
Chester and I jerked our heads to see Howie staring down at the ground. “Blood, Pop,” he said. “Uncle Harold, blood!” Could the pool at our feet really be what it seemed? Our eyes followed the reddish trail that led off into the woods.
We looked back at each other, too stunned to speak.
“I know where they are,” a voice said. It was Dawg. In all the excitement, we’d forgotten all about him. “I know where they are,” he repeated. “Follow me.”
Chester and I regarded each other uncertainly. How did Dawg know where the Monroes had gone, unless Bud and Spud were with them? If we followed him, where would he take us? If we didn’t follow him, would we ever see home—or the Monroes—again?
And, in the end, what choice did we have?
[ NINE ]
Trails End
TRAILING DAWG, we wound our way along a well-worn path among the trees. It was barely raining now; the sun was beginning to shine through the clouds. Every few steps we would find another pool of water tinted pinkishred. Even though the faint odor wasn’t exactly bloodlike, we knew we were on a trail of evil. We just didn’t know where it would lead.
Howie, as usual, was well ahead of us. Suddenly, he called out, “Pop, don’t come any closer! Stay where you are!”
Chester arched his back, his hair rising straight and tall like a Mohawk Indian’s. I suppose I should have been alarmed, too, but there was something about Howie’s warning only Chester that made me brave enough to run ahead.
Howie stood beside an empty bottle. Dawg was sniffing at it. “Uncle Harold,” Howie whined, “the blood ends here. Pop isn’t safe. They’re going to make him into... into soup!”
“Soup?” I said. I was completely at a loss as to what he meant until I read the label. “Catsup,” I read aloud, though of course I pronounced it “ketchup.”
“That doesn’t say cat soup?” Howie asked, surprised.
Chester was now close enough to hear our conversation. “And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Further evidence of the damage to the brain caused by chewing on bones and chasing sticks.”
“I believe,” Dawg said, “that yer friend is making a crack about dogs.” He growled.
I was about to step in, when Howie yipped loudly. “Pop!” he said. “Dawg! Uncle Harold, wait a minute! I don’t understand. If the trail of blood—”
“Ketchup,” Chester interjected.
“Whatever,” said Howie. “If it doesn’t lead to this bottle, then where does it lead?”
“There,” Dawg said matter-of-factly, forgetting his anger toward Chester. We looked ahead, and in a clearing was the house from the night before. It seemed less forbidding by day, but I couldn’t help remembering Chester’s name for it—an American House of Dr.E.A.D.
“You’ve brought us full circle,” I said. I was beginning to believe that there really was something to Chester’s suspicions. “Why?”
“Because that’s where you’ll find Bud and Spud,” Dawg said. “And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll find your family there, too.”
“What are they doing there?” Howie asked Dawg.
“Well, if it’s Bud and Spud you mean,” said Dawg, “they live there. As for yer kin, I couldn’t say. All I know is this is where the trail is leading us.”
Chester eyed Dawg coolly, doing a pretty fair imitation of Humphrey Bogart on the late show.
“So,” he said, i
n a low voice, “if Bud and Spud live there, that means you live there, too.” Dawg nodded, the ribbon of drool bobbing up and down with his head. “Why didn’t you tell us that last night?”
Dawg shrugged. “You were so shook up by the place,” he said, “I didn’t have a chance. Besides, I liked yer story better’n the truth. Listen fellas, it looks like it’s gonna start comin’ down again. What’d ya say we move this conversation indoors?”
Somewhat reluctantly, we agreed. “A trap,” Chester muttered as we crossed the clearing and drew nearer to the house. “We’re doomed, Harold. Have you any last words?”
“When’s breakfast?” I said, taking hope from the light in what looked to be a kitchen.
Dawg headed in that direction and scratched at the back door. I heard footsteps. They sounded familiar. Like those of . . . .
“Erda!” Chester squealed, as the door opened and an eagle-eyed, hawk-nosed woman peered down at us. “The housekeeper, Harold. My worst fantasies are coming true. Bud and Spud are really Fritz and Hans. There’s a laboratory somewhere, a laboratory where experiments are done on innocent, little—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the woman at the door grabbed him up into her arms and held him tight. “Nice kitty,” she said. “Why, Teufel, who’ve you brought home? Oh, I know, these must be our guests’ lost pets. Now, won’t they be happy to see you?”
Chester looked at me wildly. “Bark,” he hissed.
“Oh, Chester, you know how I feel about—”
“Unless you have something better to do this morning than live, Harold, bark!”
“Well, since you put it that way,” I said, and set about woofing for everything I was worth.
Howie joined in with some high-pitched yips of his own. Without thinking, the woman put her hands to her ears, and in so doing dropped Chester to the ground. He lost no time in bolting for the door, but found it closed. “No escape,” he snapped. Dawg, meanwhile, just sat back and watched as if the three of us had gone completely mad.