Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

FOUR

A Fine Murder of Crows

“It’s M. T. Graves,’ Pete said at last. “I’ll get it.” He was trying to sound brave, but the tremor in his voice gave him away.

“Yes,” Mrs. Monroe said, looking a little dazed. “M. T. Graves. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”

The tapping grew more urgent as Pete made his way to the door. He reached for the handle and slowly began to turn it. The shrieking of the crows and the beating of their frantic wings—not to mention Howie’s rapid-fire panting next to me—provided an eerie soundtrack.

The handle turned. The latch clicked. The door creaked open.

And there on the other side stood .. . Kyle.

“What took you so long? Is he here yet? When are you going to get your doorbell fixed? What’s up with all the crows in your backyard? Oh, hi, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe. What’s everybody staring at? Why does Howie look like he’s going to pass out? Did you know your cat’s eyes are bugging out of his head? So, is M. T. Graves here or what?”

Kyle likes to talk.

Pete opened his mouth to answer his friend when he suddenly fell speechless. We all did. Even Howie stopped his panting. For there, behind Kyle, loomed a tall—a very tall—figure in black. Black pupils stared down at us from eyes that bulged beneath bushy black eyebrows. Long black hair fell on either side of an ashen white face to meet a black cape that was draped around stooped shoulders. On one of those shoulders sat a large black bird, who regarded us with bright, unblinking eyes.

“That’s a . . . fine . . . murder ... of crows,” the gigantic figure said in a low voice that stopped and started and rumbled like distant thunder.

“A m-m-murder of crows, did you say?” Mrs. Monroe sputtered. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never heard Mrs. Monroe sputter. She’s a lawyer. Lawyers don’t sputter.