Howliday Inn

by James Howe

  “Omm-ooooooooooooooooo. . .”

  “Not ‘ooooo,’ you numbskull, ‘ommmmm. OMMMMMM!’ Can’t you hear the difference? Don’t you want to learn? Meditation is good for you. It’ll make you mellow. Keep you cool. Like me. Don’t you want to be like your Uncle Chester? Howie? Howie! Come back here! Where are you going? Get down from there! No, no . . . not the—Harold!”

  Excuse me. I think I’m needed in the living room.

  “Harold, get in here! I’m not a nursemaid!”

  “In a minute, Chester!”

  “He’s going after the geranium! He’s—he’s—”

  “He’s what, Chester?”

  “He’s eating the geranium!”

  “Coming, Chester!”

  Well, I’ve got to go. It was quite an adventure, but when all is said and done, there’s no place like . . .

  “Ommmmmmm. .”

  What’s next for Bunnicula, Harold, Chester, and Howie?

  Here’s an excerpt from the next adventure,

  The Disappearance

  IT WAS NOT a dark and stormy night. Indeed, there was nothing in the elements to foreshadow the events that lay ahead.

  Chester, Howie and I were gathered on the front porch for a bit of post-dinner snoozing. I was stretched out on my back, my paws dangling at my sides, thinking of nothing more than the meal I’d just eaten and the chocolate treat I hoped might still lie ahead. After all, it was Friday night, the one night of the week Toby was allowed to stay up to read as late as he wanted. And that meant snacks. Snacks to be shared with his old pal, Harold. That’s me.

  Chester, curled up on an open comic book nearby, purred contentedly. Only Howie, who was growling as he chewed vigorously on a rawhide bone, seemed unable to relax. But all that high-strung energy was natural, I suppose, considering he was still just a puppy.

  “Boy, this is the life, huh, Uncle Harold?” Howie asked between growls.

  “Mmph,” I replied with as much vigor as I could muster. Which wasn’t much. After all, I wasn’t a puppy anymore and had used up most of my energy long ago. I listened to the sound of children playing down the block somewhere.

  “There’s nothing like hanging out on the porch after a good meal,” Howie went on enthusiastically. He lifted his quivering nostrils to the air and sniffed rapidly.

  “Ahhh! Smell that night air. Mmm, what’s that? Somebody’s having a ... a what’d ya call it? What is it when they cook outside, Pop?”

  Chester raised an eyelid. “A barbecue,” he said with a yawn.

  “Oh, yeah. Gee, I have so much to learn. But you and Uncle Harold have taught me a lot already.” He gazed admiringly at Chester. “Thanks, Pop,” he said.

  Chester raised his other eyelid and shook his head. He turned his gaze from Howie to me.

  “Why does the kid insist on calling me Top’?” he asked. “I’m not his father. I’m not even a dog. If anyone around here should be his ‘pop’ it should be you, Harold. Dogs of a feather should stick together and all that.”

  Howie chuckled. “That’s a good one, Pop. ‘Dogs of a feather . . .’ I’ll have to remember that one.”

  I didn’t even attempt to answer Chester’s question. After all, Chester, who doesn’t hold dogs in particularly high regard, did seem an odd choice of a father figure for a young pup. But Howie, who had recently come to live with us, had formed his attachment right away, and there was no breaking him of it now.

  “Too bad the rabbit can’t come out here, too,” Howie went on with a nod toward the living room. “It’s not fair, his having to be cooped up inside that cage all the time.”

  “I’m afraid that’s a rabbit’s fate,” I said. “At least for a domesticated one. Though I must agree with you, Howie; I feel sorry for Bunnicula, too.”

  “Save your sympathy,” Chester muttered. “Bunnicula is no ordinary rabbit. If he ever got out. . . and let’s not forget that once upon a time he did, Harold . . . he’d only stir up trouble.”

  “Are you still convinced—” I started to say, but stopped myself, not wanting to alarm young Howie with Chester’s theories of Bunnicula’s true identity.

  Chester looked mildly surprised. “Of course, I am,” he replied. “Can there be any doubt? You saw the evidence yourself, Harold.”

  Howie looked back and forth from Chester to me. “What are you two talking about?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing.” I thought of the cuddly little bunny-rabbit who’d become my friend, of the hours we’d spent snuggling in front of crackling fires on cold winter nights, of the time I’d saved him from Chester’s attempt to starve him to death.

  “That rabbit is a vampire,” Chester said matter-of-factly.

  Howie’s head jerked up. The rawhide bone tumbled down the front steps. “What? A vampire?” He gasped. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he asked, “What’s a vampire?”

  I felt obliged to step in and save Howie from the seamier facts of life.

  “A vampire,” I explained, “is the person who calls the rules during a baseball game.”

  “Don’t confuse the kid,” Chester said, bathing a paw. “And don’t be such a Pollyanna.” Turning to Howie, he said, “A vampire is a creature, once dead, who sucks the blood out of other living beings in order to live.”

  Howie’s eyes widened in amazement.

  “Wh . . . wh . . . what?” he stammered.

  “So far, our friend Bunnicula hasn’t attacked people,” Chester went on calmly, “or cats or dogs for that matter. But he has drained the juices out of vegetables, turning them ghostly white. He came to live with us when our family ...”

  “One night the Monroes went to the movies,” I said, picking up the story, “and found Bunnicula lying in a dirt-filled box on one of the seats.”

  “Don’t forget which movie,” Chester interjected.

  “Dracula,” I conceded, “but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Nonsense. In this case, everything means something. Don’t you think it’s significant that shortly after Bunnicula’s arrival the vegetables in the kitchen started turning white? And wasn’t it strange that they did so during the night, the only time Bunnicula wasn’t asleep? Wasn’t it stranger still that he could get out of his cage by his own powers? Without even undoing the lock? And what about those marks found in the drained vegetables? Two tiny holes that matched up perfectly with the rabbit’s oddly-spaced teeth ... or should I say, fangs?”

  “I know, I know,” I said impatiently. “We’ve been through all this before. But I’m still not convinced—”

  “Nothing will ever convince you, Harold. I wouldn’t be surprised if that bunny’s got you in his powers. Listen, Howie ...”

  “Yes, Pop?”

  Chester rolled his eyes and went on. “You can’t listen to Harold on this one. He’s too much of a goody-two-shoes. And the Monroes . . . well, what can I say? People are, alas, people, and, as such, woefully in the dark much of the time. They never had a clue what was going on. I was on the verge of destroying the vampire bunny once and for all, saving this town and all its inhabitants from his evil clutches, when the Monroes whisked him off to the vet and got him put on a liquid diet. Since then, he’s had no need to suck the juices out of vegetables. A blender does all the work for him. Modern technology has once again saved the day. But ...” and here Chester furrowed his brow ominously, “you can take the rabbit out of the vampire, but you can’t take the vampire out of the rabbit.”

  “Huh?” I inquired.

  “I don’t get it,” Howie said, scratching behind his ear with his back paw.

  “You can take the—oh, never mind. What I’m trying to say is that I still believe if, for any reason, Bunnicula were deprived of his liquified vegetables, or had the opportunity to run away, he’d be back to his old tricks in no time.”

  Howie was so aroused by Chester’s story he was panting slightly. “Wow,” he said, trying to catch his breath, “and all this time I thought he was just a nice little bunny.”

>   “He is a nice little bunny,” I asserted, feeling the need to defend my friend. “Don’t listen to Chester.”

  “Don’t listen to Harold.”

  “Chester,” I said.

  “Harold.”

  “Pop, Uncle Harold,” Howie barked. “Stop arguing. You’re confusing me. I think I’d better run out and chase a car to clear my mind. Excuse me.”

  Howie started down the steps when Mrs. Monroe appeared at the door.

  “Hello, boys,” she said warmly. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to. Howie, come back here. I’ve told you not to run out into the street.”

  “Rats,” Howie muttered under his breath. He turned his face up toward the door and began whimpering.

  “Now, that won’t do you any good. Come on,” she said, “it’s getting late. Time to come in for the night. We’re all going to bed.”

  Howie and I, being the obedient dog-types that we are, started for the door. Chester, a cat, lingered on his comic book, looking up at Mrs. Monroe with singular disinterest. She went over and picked him up. “Let’s go, you little cutie,” she cooed. “Sleepy-time.”

  Chester grimaced. “‘Little cutie,’ ‘sleepy-time,’ good grief,” I heard him mumble.

  We entered the living room to find Toby and Pete, the Monroes’ two sons, staring into the television set as if they’d been hypnotized. I went over to Toby’s side to see what it was all about.

  “Gotcha!” Toby yelled suddenly, making me jump.

  Pete bounced and twitched all over the floor as he frantically turned some dials back and forth and little blobs of light darted all over the screen. Weird noises—squawks and beeps and screeches-emanated from inside the television.

  “I think our TV’s possessed,” I whispered to Chester, who’d jumped down from Mrs. Monroe’s arms to join us.

  “Don’t panic, Harold,” he reassured me. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Slowly, he skulked across the floor, his eyes never straying from the flecks of light that dashed about maniacally on the screen. Every time two of them collided, another hideous screech was heard. When that happened, Chester’s head jerked, his eyes widened, and a little more hair shot up along his back.

  Suddenly, he pounced. With his paws racing madly across the screen, he tried to catch the screaming specks of light.

  “Chester!” Pete yelled. “Get out of the way.”

  “Yeah, Chester,” Toby joined in. “Come on, you’re ruining the game!” I was a little surprised at Toby, who was usually more patient than his brother. He now seemed as transformed as Pete by this strange new enterprise of theirs.

  “All right, boys,” Mrs. Monroe said, touching them lightly on the tops of their heads, “that’s enough Star-Thrower for tonight.”

  “Star-Eater, Mom!”

  “Yeah, Mom. Jeez.”

  “Star-Thrower, Star-Eater, whatever. It’s time to call it quits and get to bed. Toby, you want time to sit up and read, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Toby said. “Chester!” Chester was still busy trying to catch the elusive stars. “Just one more game, Mom. Okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay. Robert.”

  Mr. Monroe put down the book he was reading in a chair nearby. “You boys have a big day tomorrow,” he said. “I think you’d better get some sleep. You heard your mother—no more Star-Catcher.”

  “Star-Eater, dear,” Mrs. Monroe said. “I’m going to count to three. One, two . . .”

  “Okay, okay,” Pete said, and with a click the stars disappeared from the television sky. Chester, his front paws still stretched out on the screen, looked dazed.

  “Everybody to bed. Now.”

  “Okay, we’re going.” The boys started up the stairs.

  I planned to follow when suddenly I noticed Howie run up to Chester and whisper excitedly.

  “Pop! Pop!”

  Chester kept blinking his eyes at the television as if trying to figure out what had happened.

  “What, kid?”

  “Pop, what you said about Bunnicula. Your warning ...”

  “What about it?”

  I glanced over to the rabbit’s cage.

  “Chester!” I gasped.

  Chester dropped down and looked at us. “What’s the matter with you two?”

  Howie, barely able to contain himself, blurted out, “The rabbit’s gone! Look, he’s not in his cage!”

  With a start, Chester looked at the empty cage sitting on the table by the window.

  “Where do you suppose he is?” I asked.

  “Quick,” Chester commanded, “to the kitchen!”

  “Where are you off to in such a rush?” Mrs. Monroe asked as we brushed by her legs. “You were just fed. I’m afraid no more food has miraculously reappeared in your dishes.”

  That’s too bad, I thought, as we tumbled through the swinging kitchen door and skidded to a halt on the linoleum inside.

  All was quiet. The refrigerator door was closed. A bowl of fruit sat undisturbed on the kitchen table. We listened attentively for breathing, or hopping, or whatever noises rabbits make when they’ve run away. There wasn’t a sound.

  “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.”