by James Howe
“A madcap tale with clever character twists and plots going hilariously awry.”
—Kirkus Reviews
PRAISE FOR THE BUNNICULA SERIES
* “A clever tale abounding with puns, wild chases, and slapstick humor.”
—SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL, starred review
“A treat for all ages.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Don’t miss any of the adventures of Bunnicula, the vampire rabbit, and his pals Harold, Chester, and Howie!
It’s happening again.
The Monroes’ kitchen is littered with the remains of vegetables drained of all color. To Chester it’s obvious that Bunnicula, the vampire rabbit, is up to his old tricks.
But Harold is more frightened for Bunnicula than of him. The poor bunny doesn’t look too good. Is he sick? Or just unhappy? Or has Chester finally gone too far in his attempt to make the world safe for veggies?
One thing’s for sure: Harold isn’t going to let anything bad happen to his long-eared pal—even if it means leaving the comfort of his home, losing his best friend, and risking his own life. And if he fails—could this be the end of Bunnicula?
JAMES HOWE wrote the award-winning bestseller Bunnicula with his late wife, Deborah Howe, in 1977. The couple went on to write one other children’s book, Teddy Bear’s Scrapbook, before Deborah’s untimely death from cancer in 1978.
After Bunnicula’s publication in 1979, James Howe quit his job as a literary agent to pursue writing full-time. His many other popular books for children include the six sequels to Bunnicula; the Tales from the House of Bunnicula series; the Bunnicula and Friends Ready-to-Read series; the Sebastian Barth mysteries; the Pinky and Rex series; and the picture books Horace and Morris But Mostly Dolores and Horace and Morris Join the Chorus (but what about Dolores?). He is also the author of several acclaimed novels for older readers, such as The Misfits, Totally Joe, Addie on the Inside, and The Watcher, and is the editor of the anthologies The Color of Absence: 12 Stories About Loss and Hope and 13: Thirteen Stories That Capture the Agony and Ecstasy of Being Thirteen. James Howe lives in New York State with his partner Mark Davis.
Jacket design by Russell Gordon
Jacket illustration copyright © 2006 by C. F. Payne
ATHENEUM
BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
Simon and Schuster • New York
Meet the author,
watch videos, and get extras at
KIDS.SimonandSchuster.com
Other books by James Howe
Bunnicula (with Deborah Howe)
Howliday Inn
The Celery Stalks at Midnight
Nighty-Nightmare
Return to Howliday Inn
Sebastian Barth Mysteries:
What Eric Knew
Stage Fright
Eat Your Poison, Dear
Dew Drop Dead
A Night Without Stars
Morgan’s Zoo
Teddy Bear’s Scrapbook
Bunnicula’s Wickedly Wacky Word Games
Bunnicula’s Pleasantly Perplexing Puzzlers
Bunnicula’s Long-Lasting Laugh-Alouds
Bunnicula’s Frightfully Fabulous Factoids
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Text copyright © 1999 by James Howe
Illustrations copyright © 1999 by Alan Daniel
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Book design by Ann Bobco
The text of this book is set in Berkeley
The illustrations are rendered in pencil
eSIBN-13: 978-1-4424-5194-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Howe, James.
Bunnicula Strikes Again! / by James Howe.
p. cm.
Summary: When Bunnicula the rabbit starts acting strangely, the Monroe dogs and cat renew their suspicions that he is a vampire.
ISBN 0-689-81463-1
[1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. Cats—Fiction. 3. Rabbits—Fiction. 4. Vampires—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.H83727But 1999
[Fie]—dc21
99-20419
Contents
Editor’s Note
CHAPTER ONE: The End
CHAPTER TWO: The Terrible Truth About Chester
CHAPTER THREE: Do Not Litter!
CHAPTER FOUR: A Rabbit’s Tears
CHAPTER FIVE: Surprise Encounters
CHAPTER SIX: Tomato Juice, Togas, and Trouble
CHAPTER SEVEN: Plant, See?
CHAPTER EIGHT: Friends and Traitors
CHAPTER NINE: The Last Showdown
CHAPTER TEN: One of the Family
To Harold’s Editors Extraordinaire—
Jonathan J. Lanman
and
Jean Karl
[EDITOR’S NOTE]
LOOKING back on my years as an editor of fine literature, I can name many honors and associations of which I am proud. Yet one stands out as the apex of my career—the unique privilege of having edited the work of Harold, canine author extraordinaire. How many in my position have received a manuscript from the clenched jaws of its creator? Who else has known the pleasure of reading a novelist’s new work for the very first time while the novelist himself lies at one’s feet, snoring contentedly? What publishing professional has successfully entertained an out-of-town author with a handful of doggie biscuits and a bowl of cocoa? Other editors may dream of such things, but I have known them!
And yet, numerous books and countless doggie biscuits later, the unanswered questions remain: Where did Harold learn to type and how does he manage it with those big paws of his? What does he do with the early drafts of his work—bury them in the backyard? Doesn’t anybody notice all that missing typing paper? If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one around to hear it, does it still make a sound?
Alas, these questions are destined to remain unanswered—small mysteries within the greater mystery of life itself. For although Harold is able to communicate via the written word—and, in ways that are incomprehensible to mere humans such as you and I, to speak to his fellow animals—he remains mute (other than the occasional “woof”) in face-to-face contact. As delighted as I am to see him when he drops by my office, I don’t count on much in the way of scintillating conversation.
Thus it was that when he last appeared at my door with a manuscript gripped between his teeth, I invited him in, proffered the usual cocoa and dog biscuits, and—without a word exchanged between us—proceeded to read his latest book as he curled up at my feet and went to sleep. First, I read the note that accompanied the manuscript, which read:
My dearest friend and esteemed colleague,
We have come a long way together since my first book, Bunnicula: A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery. Little did we know that my life, which until Bunnicula’s arrival had been decidedly-unremarkable, would thereafter be filled with adventures and that each adventure would translate into yet another book. Odd, that I, whose greatest ambition has always been the uninterrupted nap, should after all these years find himself the semi-famous author of several books!
And now we may have reached the final chapter. I must warn you that the story you are about to read is chilling, but it is one that nonetheless had to be told. I hope it will not disturb you or your readers too much, for it has never been my intention to disturb, merely to entertain. I trust you will find the entertainment value sufficiently present to warrant publication of this book as you have the others in the past.
I look
forward to your response and, as always, I send you my good wishes.
Yours sincerely,
Harold X.
A curious letter, I thought. Then I began to read. And at once I understood why Harold had warned me the book would be disturbing. There on the very first page was another question. Would it remain unanswered? Read for yourself and ask as I did: Is this the end?
[ ONE ]
The End
HOW unexpectedly the end can come. Had I even thought such a thing was possible, I might have noticed the warning signs that Friday night one May when, ironically, I was feeling so at peace with the world. I remember the feeling well, for although a general sense of contentedness is part of a dog’s nature, keen awareness of just how fortunate one is comes along less frequently than you might imagine. This was one of those rare moments.
I was stretched out on the bed next to my master, Toby. I call him my master because while there are four members of the Monroe family, it is the youngest who treats me with the greatest kindness and consideration. On Friday nights, for instance, Toby, who is allowed to stay up late to read, shares his stash of treats with me. He knows how much I love chocolate, and so he’s always sure to have at least one chocolaty delight ready and waiting for me. (Some of my readers have written expressing their concern about the potentially detrimental effects of chocolate on dogs, to which I can only say that while it is true some dogs have been known to become ill from eating chocolate, others have not. Luckily, I fall into the latter category. Also, I hasten to remind my readers that I, like the books I have written, am a work of fiction.)
Parenthetical digression aside, I return to that Friday evening in May when I lay happily snuggled up next to my favorite boy, my mouth blissfully tingling from the lingering taste of my favorite food—a chocolate cupcake with cream in the middle, yum. Toby’s hand rested on my head, which in turn rested on his outstretched legs. The warm spring breeze wafted through the open window, gently carrying Toby’s voice as he read to me. Toby is the kind of reader who devours books—and long books, at that—unlike his older brother, Pete, whose reading is limited to a series of truly gross horror novels called FleshCrawlers. (Believe me, I know they’re gross; I chewed on one once and the cheap glue they use on the bindings made me sick as a—you should pardon the expression—dog. Give me Literature any day!)
Lulled by Toby’s voice, I remember thinking how perfect my life seemed at that moment. My best friend, Chester, had undoubtedly settled himself in on the brown velvet armchair in the living room below and was now contentedly sleeping or shedding or reading. He, like Toby, is a voracious reader, which may surprise you, given that he’s a cat; but, again, in the world of fiction, anything is possible. Consider the other two members of the Monroe menagerie: Howie, a wirehaired dachshund puppy who Chester maintains is part werewolf, and Bunnicula, a rabbit with fangs. While Chester doesn’t concern himself much with Howie’s howling, seeing it as irritating but harmless, he does work himself up into a fancy frenzy from time to time over the dangers he imagines Bunnicula poses to our vegetables, our family, the town in which we live, and, when he’s really on a roll, Civilization as we know it.
Now all of this may seem very strange to you, but to me it is just life. I couldn’t picture it any other way. Over time, the eight of us in our family—four people, four pets—have settled into the comforting rhythms of a song without end. Or so I thought.
I had been only vaguely listening to the story Toby was reading. I knew that it was about the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his friend Watson because those stories were all that Toby had been reading for weeks. I had grown fond of Holmes and had often thought that his friendship with Watson was something like mine with Chester. I was therefore unprepared for the terrible event that concluded this particular tale, in which Watson tells of the final confrontation between Holmes and his archenemy, the evil Professor Moriarty.
‘“As I turned away I saw Holmes, with his back against a rock and his arms folded, gazing down at the rush of waters. It was the last that I was ever destined to see of him in this world,’” Toby read.
I lifted my head and woofed. Was it possible? Would Holmes perish? Could an author be so cruel as to kill off his most beloved character?
As if he could read my mind, Toby looked down at me with a forlorn expression on his face. “Are you worried about what’s going to happen?” he asked. “I wish I could tell you the story has a happy ending, boy, but . . . Well, I guess I’d better just finish reading.”
I listened attentively to every word. You may imagine my shock when it was revealed that Holmes and Moriarty, locked in a deadly embrace, tumbled from the precipice overlooking Reichenbach Falls into “that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam,” where they were lost forever.
I couldn’t believe it! The author had really done it! He had killed Sherlock Holmes! I would have written him an irate letter then and there if I’d known where the Monroes kept their stamps—and if it hadn’t occurred to me that the author had been dead for three-quarters of a century.
I began to whimper and Toby, whose own eyes were glistening, bent over me and crooned, “There, there, boy. It’s only a story.” But Toby is a sensitive lad, and I knew that for him, as for me, there was something more here than a story. There was the painful recognition that all too quickly things can change. I didn’t like it. I wanted my world to go on as it always had. I wanted to be sure that Friday nights would always mean treats with Toby, that Chester would always be my friend, that Bunnicula would always be in his cage by the living-room window, and that Howie would always, for reasons no one understands, call me Uncle Harold and Chester Pop.
I jumped down from Toby’s bed with an urgent need to check downstairs and be sure that everything was in its proper place.
“Hey, where’re you going, boy?” I heard Toby call. I turned back to give his hand a quick lick, then bounded from the room and down the stairs.
“Chester!” I cried out as I turned the corner from the hall into the living room. His chair was empty!
“Chester! Where are you?” I called into the darkened room.
As my eyes adjusted, I could see that Howie was not curled up under the coffee table where he should have been. Where was everybody? Thank goodness, Bunnicula at least was where he belonged, sitting in his cage, gazing out at the empty living room.
I trotted over to his cage and said hello. Slowly, he turned his head in my direction, and had I known then what I would later learn, I would have seen the listlessness in the movement, might even have detected the lack of luster in his normally sparkly eyes. Do I only imagine it now, or was there something behind that glassy gaze that was saying, “Help me, Harold”? How easy it is to look back and see everything so differently.
At the time, I was just relieved he was there. I didn’t pay him any more mind at that moment because the door to the kitchen creaked open just then and through it appeared Chester, licking his chops.
“Where were you?” I said, trying to sound less alarmed than I felt and failing miserably. “I called you and called you.”
Chester parked himself next to me and nonchalantly turned his tongue’s attention to the tip of his tail. “For heaven’s sake, Harold, get a grip on yourself. I was in the kitchen having a little snack. Knowing your inability to go without food for less than five minutes at a stretch, I assumed you’d be joining me. Now what’s all the excitement about?”
“Well, I, that is ...” I let my sentence drop, feeling foolish all of a sudden to be so worked up over a mere story. I might have reminded myself of the many times Chester had not only worked himself up but practically turned the house upside down from his hysterical overreaction to something he’d read—but then Chester is a cat and prone to overreacting.
“It was just—just something I read,” I told him.
He snickered. “I understand. The list of ingredients on candy wrappers can be alarming.”
He chortled to himself
as I tried to think of a speedy comeback. Unfortunately, I am notoriously slow at speedy comebacks, so I gave up the effort even as I silently rejoiced that this exchange was proof that life in the Monroe house was proceeding as usual.
If further proof was needed, Howie came skipping down the stairs, his toenails clicking wildly. He raced to our sides and skidded to a halt.
“Boy,” he said breathlessly, “that was so scary!” The poor kid was quivering.
“What happened?” I asked.
I noticed that Chester had stopped bathing his tail and was staring intently at Howie. His eyes were sharp. His ears were perked. He was ready to make his move on whatever had so frightened the impressionable young puppy.
“W-well,” Howie stammered, “there was this giant p-p-potato, see, and he ate up everything in the refrigerator and when seventh grader Billy-Bob Krenshaw went to get milk for his cereal—”
“Hold it right there!” Chester snapped. Howie, who always does what Chester tells him, froze, his jaw dropped open, and his tongue unfurled like a flag hanging off a porch on a windless Fourth of July.
“Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?” Chester went on.
We waited.
“You can move your mouth now,” Chester said.
“Thanks,” said Howie. “I was talking about FleshCrawlers number nineteen, The Potato Has a Thousand Eyes. I was reading it over Pete’s shoulder. Until he told me I had to leave because I had breath like the bottom of a garbage pail, which I resent because I haven’t been near the garbage for a whole week, not since that time the baby-sitter left the lid off, which reminds me—”
“Howie!”
“What, Pop?”
“Do you have a point to make here? Do you know what I mean by a point?”
“Yes, I have a point to make!” said Howie. “And what was your other question? Did I know what a point meant? Of course I do. I had an appointment just last week with the vet. Get it, Pop? Get it, Uncle Harold?”