Bunnicula: A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery (5 page)

“Will you get up here?” he hissed.

Okay, if that’s what you want. I ran and jumped onto the chair, landing with a great kerplop.

“Chester, where are you?” I cried. I couldn’t see anything but the back of the chair. I’d forgotten to turn myself around.

“I’m here, you great oaf!”

I turned my head. “What are you doing on the floor?” I asked.

“You knocked me off the chair. Now just stay put. I’m coming back up.”

I moved to the back of the chair, and Chester landed on the front.

“Now, let’s see,” he said, “we both have to see the book. You come over here, and I’ll move this way.”

I don’t know if you’ve ever watched a cat try to decide where to sit, but it involves a lot of circling around, sitting, getting up again, circling some more, thinking about it, lying down, standing up, bathing a paw or tail and … circling! A dog, on the other hand, sits. “This looks like a good spot,” a dog will say to himself. He will then lower his body to the spot in question and is usually so secure in his decision that he will fall asleep immediately.

Chester took what felt like twenty minutes to settle himself in, and just as I was drifting off, the kicks started. “Come on, Harold, quit hogging the seat. And wake up. What were you trying to do? Take a little cat nap? Ha ha ha.”

I yawned.

“Now,” said Chester, turning to the book, “let’s get down to brass tacks.”

“What exactly is on your mind?” I asked.

“This book and that rabbit,” Chester replied. “Now tell me, Harold, have you noticed anything funny about that rabbit?”

“No,” I said, “but I’ve certainly noticed a lot of funny things about you recently.”

“Think about it. That rabbit sleeps all day.”

“So do I. So do you.”

“Furthermore, he’s got funny little sharp teeth.”

“So do I. So do you.”

“Furthermore, he gets in and out of his cage by himself. What kind of rabbit can do that?”

“A smart one,” I said. “I could do it.”

“We’re not talking about you, Harold. We’re talking about the rabbit. Now, where did they find him?”

“At the movies.”

“Yes, but
what
movie?”

“
Dracula
,” I said, “so?”

“So,” he said quickly, “remember the note around his neck? What language was it in?”

“An obscure dialect of the Carpathian mountain region,” I answered smugly. He didn’t know everything.

“Ah ha!” Chester said, “but what
area
of the Carpathian mountain region?”

Area? What’s an area? I looked at him blankly.

“Transylvania!” he cried triumphantly. “And that proves my point.”

“What point? What are we talking about?”

“And don’t forget the white tomato! That’s most important of all!”

“But, what …”

“This book,” said Chester, disregarding me, “tells us just what we need to know.”

“
What?
” I practically screamed. “What does it tell us? What does this book have to do with Bunnicula? What are you talking about? What’s going on here? I can’t stand it anymore!”

Chester regarded me coolly. “You’re really very excitable, Harold. That’s not good for your blood pressure.”

I put my paws around his throat. “Tell me,” I said in a low, threatening voice, “or I’ll squeeze you till you pop.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get upset. Now this book tells you everything you’ve always wanted to know about vampires but were afraid to ask.”

Personally, I had never wanted to know anything about vampires, but at the moment, I was afraid to tell that to Chester.

“I still don’t understand what vampires have to do with our little furry friend.”

“One,” Chester said, “vampires do not sleep at night. They sleep only during the day. The same holds true for this rabbit. Two, vampires can get in and out of locked rooms. Bunnicula gets in and out of his locked cage.”

This was beginning to interest me. “Didn’t you say something about the refrigerator?”

“That’s right. He got the refrigerator open … all by himself. Three, vampires have long pointed teeth. They’re called fangs.”

“Well, don’t we have fangs?”

“No, we have canines. That’s different.”

“What’s different about it?”

“Fangs are more pointed, and vampires use fangs to bite people on the neck.”

“Yech! Who’d want to do that?”

“Vampires would, that’s who.”

“Wait a minute. I saw Mrs. Monroe bite Mr. Monroe on the neck once. Does that mean she’s a vampire?”

“Boy, are you dumb. She’s not a vampire. She’s a lawyer.”

“She bites necks.”

“I don’t think that’s quite the same thing. Now, Bunnicula does not bite people on the neck. At least, not so far. But he does bite vegetables…”

“On the neck?” I asked.

“Vegetables don’t have necks, Harold. Vegetables are like that. It’s like dogs. Dogs don’t have brains. Dogs are like that.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Of course he bites vegetables. All rabbits bite vegetables.”

“He
bites
them, Harold, but he does not eat them. That tomato was all white. What does that mean?”

“It means … that he paints vegetables?” I ventured.

“It means he bites vegetables to make a hole in them, and then he sucks out all the juices.”

“But what about all the lettuce and carrots that Toby has been feeding him in his cage?”

“Ah ha, what indeed!” Chester said. “Look at this!” Whereupon, he stuck his paw under the chair cushion and brought out with a flourish an assortment of strange white objects. Some of them looked like unironed handkerchiefs, and the others … well, the others didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before.

“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!
”

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 …”