Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

“I know what you’re trying to tell us, Pop,” Howie chimed in. “Those are the names of FleshCrawlers books. You’re trying to tell us . . . um, you’re trying to tell us . . . um, names of FleshCrawlers books?”

“Listen to this,” Chester said, pushing open the pages of one of the books on the chair.

“Belinda! Belinda, come back!” Tiffani-Sue called out. “You mustn’t go into that flying saucer! If you do, you will be turned into a robot!” But it was too late for Belinda, Tiffani-Sue’s beloved miniature poodle, the miniature poodle she had been given on her sixth birthday when her mother had been away on yet another of her many business trips, the miniature poodle that had been her best friend and companion ever since her father swam off with his scuba-diving instructor, never to return, when Tiffani-Sue was in the second grade. Now she watched in horror as Belinda was transformed into a steel-plated robot right before her very eyes! “No!” she cried out. “Not you, too, Belinda!”

Howie was blinking back tears. “I wish I could write like that,” he said with a sigh.

“And what about this?” Chester went on, pushing open the pages of a different book.

Sara-Ellen Lafferty felt something moving at the bottom of her bed. At first she was scared, but then she remembered that it was only her pet kitten, Mister Buttons. “Whew,” Sara-Ellen said to Mister Buttons, “for a moment there I thought you were one of them.”

“Who says I’m not?” Mister Buttons replied in an unfamiliar, husky voice.

Sara-Ellen reached for the flashlight her mother had left by her bed just in case she had another of those terrible nightmares. She switched it on. What she beheld made her wish that she was dreaming. But this was real—and more terrible than any nightmare Sara-Ellen had ever had. Now she watched in horror as Mister Buttons was transformed into a steel-plated demon right before her very eyes! “No!” she cried out. “Not you, too, Mister Buttons!”

“And so it goes,” said Chester. “In every book, the main character’s pet is transformed into something unspeakable!”

“Not to mention steel-plated,” I commented.

“If it’s unspeakable, then why speak of it?” Howie asked.

“Because it could happen to us, don’t you see? These so-called novels of his may be no more than thinly disguised blueprints for the horrors he actually commits!” Chester was getting more excited with each word. “Why is he staying in our house? He’s a famous author. He should be staying in a hotel, but no, he says he wants to stay here because he wants to meet the pets! He even asks for ‘quality time’ with us. What is that supposed to mean? I’ll tell you what it means. It means ‘transformation time,’ that’s what it means!”

“Now, Chester,” I said. “I think you’re getting a little carried—”

“You want proof, Harold? Is that what you want?”

“I’d rather have a sandwich,” I told him. I’m always a little peckish around midnight.

Chester grabbed another book.

“Not again,” I mumbled.

“Fine, I won’t read it,’ Chester said. “The writing is garbage, anyway.”

Howie gasped at this literary assessment.

“Don’t Go in the Yard,” Chester went on. “Know it, Howie?”

“Know it? It’s a classic!”

“And do you remember what’s in the yard?”

“Grass?” Howie guessed. “Buried bones?”

“Think, Howie.”

“Oh, right. Birds. Wait, not just any birds. Crows!”

“That’s right, Howie. Crows. Bad crows. Not nice crows. Really mean crows. And who, I wonder, do those bad, not nice, really mean crows go after? Surely not Skippy Sapworthy.”

Howie thought for a moment. And then a shiver went through him. “No,” he said, “you’re right, Pop. It isn’t Skippy Sapworthy. It’s his dog, Binky-Boy. He’s transformed into a scarecrow!”

“The pets,” Chester intoned. “It’s always the pets.”