Nighty-Nightmare (6 page)

“It looks like a castle,” said Howie.

“Or a cathedral,” I said.

We turned to Chester for his response, but there was none—none other than the look of sheer horror on his face, that is.

“Come on,” Dawg said, “let's go closer.”

“No!” Chester cried.

“Aw, come on,” said Dawg, “don't start that chicken stuff again.”

“It . . . it isn't that,” Chester stuttered. He looked up at the sky. It had grown cloudier, but the light of the moon was still strong and full of power. “I'm tired, that's all. I think maybe we should go back to camp. Do you know the way, Dawg?”

Dawg frowned. “Well, shore, but don't you wanta see the house? We've come all this way.” He turned to Howie and yawned in spite of himself. “You wanta see it, don't you, Howie?”

“He's stalling,” Chester whispered to me. “We've got to get back to camp. We don't have much time till midnight. And the last thing we
want to do is go near that house. Anywhere but
that
house.”

“Why?” I asked. “What are you talking about?” But Chester couldn't answer, because Dawg and Howie were looking to us for a decision.

“I don't know about you, but I'm beat,” Chester said. “What do you say we try to get some rest? Then we can go see the house, and
then
go back to camp.”

Dawg yawned again. “Well, okay,” he said. “I wouldn't mind setting down these weary bones for a spell. It looks like there's some shelter over there under those leaves. Is this all right with you, little fella?”

Howie stretched his mouth wide, trying to make his yawn as big as Dawg's, I think. “Sure,” he said.

As we settled in, I tried not to be hurt by the fact that Howie cuddled up to Dawg's side instead of mine. Chester didn't allow me any time for hurt feelings, however. “As soon as Dawg is asleep,” he whispered, “we grab Howie and run.

“Nighty-night,” he said to Dawg and Howie, who were curled up several feet away from us.

“Nighty-night,” Howie said.

Dawg grumbled something I couldn't make out. It might have been “nighty-night,” but garbled in some unidentifiable, macho way.

Well, I thought, as I looked up through the leaves at the broken pattern of stars and clouds above me, here I am: middle-aged and having an adventure. It wasn't quite what I'd had in mind when Mr. Monroe had suggested an overnight camping trip, but I was sleeping under the stars and there was no denying that an adventure was what I was having. I wondered about Mr. Monroe then. What kind of adventure was he having? I shuddered as I thought about it and wondered how long it would take for Dawg to go to sleep.

Looking in his direction, I saw his eyes shining in the dark. It seemed the moon was forever reflected in them. He blinked when he saw me looking at him. I swallowed hard.

“Having trouble sleeping?” I asked.

“I always do,” he said. “This ol' body of mine's
got so many breaks and bruises in it that something's always aching. Don't worry about me, I'll just rest while you all sleep. I don't mind.”

“Great,” Chester muttered. Then to Dawg, he said, “Would anything help you sleep?”

Dawg thought for a moment. “A doggie-bone softened in warm milk,” he said at last. I was ready to forgive him anything when he said it, but then it occurred to me that even Al Capone, the most notorious gangster of them all, probably liked his milk and cookies now and again.

“Well, we're a little short on milk,” Chester said. “How about a lullaby? Harold, sing him the song about Dinah in the kitchen. Soft and low, Harold. Soft and low.”

I was about to open my mouth in song, when the words froze in my throat. There was someone out there. I heard the crackling of branches, voices whispering in the dark. “Chester, did you hear?” I hissed.

“Of course,” Chester said. “The evil spirits are waking to the devil's alarm. Midnight is upon us.

The sooner we
get
this clown to sleep, the better. Sing, Harold.”

I opened my mouth again, but was stopped this time by Dawg. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “what would help me to sleep better than a song is a story.”

“Yeah,” Howie said, “that's what we need. A story. Just think, if we were back at the campfire with the Monroes, we'd be telling ghost stories. Tell us a ghost story, Pop.”

“Well, I don't know,” Chester said. The leaves about us stirred in the wind. A branch snapped somewhere off to my left.

“A scary story,” Dawg said. “Yer good at that, Chester. If you want me to go to sleep, you'd better tell me a scary story.” His words sounded like a threat, like he knew that we knew. If you
want
me to go to sleep, he'd said.

I looked to Chester, whose eyes were focused on the house in the distance. The quivering yellow light faded and went out. The house was dark and still. “All right,” Chester said, “I'll tell you a
story. A story of Saint George's Day. A true story. One that started in Transylvania and ended right here.”

“Here?” I said, feeling my hair begin to rise. Boy, my hair was really getting a work out tonight.

“It is the history of a vampire rabbit named Bunnicula,” Chester went on. “The little-known but true story of a race of creatures who brought terror wherever they roamed and passed on to each generation the secrets of their evil ways.”

“I get it,” said Howie. “This is the story of a hare with dark roots.”

[
SIX
]

C
HESTER TOOK A MOMENT to bathe his tail. Howie, Dawg, and I settled down on our bed of pine needles and leaves and waited. The air that ruffled our hairs and rustled the trees above us was changing, perhaps in anticipation as well, though anticipation of what, I couldn't say. When Chester was ready to begin, he assumed the classic cat position—head high, spine erect, front legs as straight and formal as marble columns—and wrapped his freshly laundered tail around himself, leaving only the tip in motion. For a time, it flicked
the ground. Then slowly it quieted. And the story began.

“Once upon a time in Transylvania,” Chester said, “high in the Carpathian Mountains in a little town called Kasha-Varnishkes, there lived twin brothers, whose names were Hans and Fritz. The simple sons of simple innkeepers, their lives were—”

“Simple?” I ventured.

“Free from care,” said Chester. “Free from worry. Until that fateful day when everything changed. ‘Wash up for dinner,' their mother told them, as she did every night before the evening meal. ‘Going, Mummy,' said Fritz, the more obedient of the two. ‘Take your brother with you,' their mother said.”

“Well, sure,” Howie put in. “After all, you don't want dirty Hans at dinner.”

Chester sighed deeply and continued. “They were just going outside to the well when they heard a crash. Rushing back in, they found their mother lying in a heap on the floor. ‘Mummy!' Fritz cried.”

“This Fritz is a real wimp,” Dawg muttered. I tended to agree, though I said nothing.

“ ‘Is she dead?' said Hans. ‘No,' Fritz told his brother. ‘But I think she's had a relapse. Oh, Hans, you know what we were told the last time this happened. There is only one doctor, a doctor in far-off London, who can cure her. What are we to
do? We are the poor children of poor innkeepers. So few people pass by this way, it will take us years to save enough money to go to London and get help. And Mummy doesn't have years.' Fritz began to cry.

“Feeling her son's teardrops on her lips, the woman blinked open her eyes. Is that you, Stefan?' she said. Hans and Fritz looked sadly at each other. ‘Mummy, you know that Papa is gone,' said Fritz. Then to his brother, he whispered, The disease has already affected her mind.' Their mother smiled wistfully. ‘I remember now,' she said. ‘He's gone to wash for dinner.'

“Fritz manfully choked back his tears. ‘That's right,' he said. ‘Oh, Hans, yet we can hope. We must do everything in our power to help Papa save Mummy.' ‘There's only one way I know of,' said Hans. He exchanged a knowing look with his brother, who nodded solemnly.

“And so it was that the next morning, Hans and Fritz secretly ripped out a corner of a page from the newspaper and set off in search of Diabolicus.”

“Who's that?” Howie asked.

“Dr. Emil Alphonse Diabolicus,” Chester went on to explain, “was the subject of talk and the object of fear in the town of Kasha-Varnishkes. He lived in an ancestral home, a decaying castle high upon a mountain bluff, and was never seen by day and only rarely by night. Some said he was a mad doctor, engaged in research, playing God. Others called him the devil's apprentice. But no one knew for certain what went on in the castle on the bluff. His housekeeper, who came into town each week to buy food, didn't engage in idle conversation. And none of the peasants were brave enough to venture up the mountainside to find out the truth for themselves. In fact, were it not for an unassuming little ad in the local paper, Hans and Fritz would never have known about the moneymaking opportunity they were about to pursue.

“Top bucks for research assistants,' the ad read. Inquire at The House of Dr.E.A.D.'”

I shuddered. “The House of Dread?” I asked Chester.

“The house of
Dr. E
mil
A
lphonse
D
iabolicus,” he replied. “It was Hans whose hands lifted the heavy knocker on the door, for once there, Fritz was ready to turn back. ‘Courage,' Hans said as the door creaked open. With the eyes of an eagle and the nose of a hawk, the housekeeper looked down at the boys.

“ ‘What do you want?' she said.

“ ‘We . . . we've come about the ad,' said Hans. There was a roll of thunder, even though it was a sunny day.

“ ‘Thank the powers-that-be!' the old woman exclaimed, clutching her withered hands to her chest. ‘You've arrived just in time. Come in, lads, come in.'

“She put Hans and Fritz to work that very afternoon, and they continued to work each afternoon for the next two weeks. But in all that time they never met Dr. Diabolicus. They followed the instructions of the housekeeper, who called herself Erda, and were paid promptly at the end of each day when they delivered to her what it was they had been sent out to find.”

“What?” Dawg said. “What were they sent out to find?” I noticed that he seemed more wide awake than ever. I was beginning to wonder if Chester's little story would put him to sleep by midnight. But I confess I almost didn't care. I wanted to hear the rest of the tale myself.

“Yeah, Chester,” I said. “What were they looking for?”

A twinkle came into Chester's eyes. “Rabbits,” he said.

“Rabbits!” Howie exclaimed. “What did he want rabbits for?”

“That was just what Hans and Fritz were asking themselves. It seemed that Dr. Diabolicus couldn't get enough rabbits. The ad in the paper said “research assistants,”' Hans pointed out one day. ‘So he must be using the bunnies for research. But what
kind
of research?' ‘Oh,' said Fritz, 1 don't want to know. We're getting paid, isn't that enough? We'll soon have the money to buy our passage to London, that's all that matters.'