Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

“A flock of crows is also called a ‘murder,’” Mr. Monroe explained. “Isn’t that right?”

The tall, spooky-looking man nodded as Chester muttered, “Interesting choice of words.”

“Please come in,” said Mrs. Monroe, now sputter-free. “Forgive our lack of manners. This racket is unnerving.”

Kyle tilted his head back in order to gaze up at the stranger who was entering the house. “Are you M. T. Graves?” he asked. “Is that the real Edgar Allan Crow up there? He won’t peck out my eyes, will he? Did you notice the welcome sign out front? I made it. I’m sorry it’s not better. I’m not very good at art stuff. I’m Kyle. I don’t live here.”

“Hello, Kyle,” the tall man rumbled. Turning to Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, he asked, “May I. .. sit?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Monroe. “You’ve had a long trip. Do you have any bags?”

Lowering himself with a heavy sigh into Chester’s chair (well, the chair that Chester calls his), the man in black waved vaguely toward the front door. “They’re ... in the car,” he said. “Might I have a glass of ... water?”

“I’ll get it!” Pete volunteered.

He was out of the room and back with a glass of water before you could say, “Behold the powers of darkness.” Unless of course you were Chester, in which case you could say it twice.

“Here you go, Mr. Graves,” said Pete.

“It’s Tanner,” said the stranger, offering his companion a few sips before downing the remainder of the glass in a single swallow.

“But I thought—”

“M. T. Graves is my nom de plume.”

“Your what?” Kyle asked.

“My pen name, the name I use for writing. My real name is Miles Tanner.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’m Pete. And this is my mom and dad. And you met Kyle, and that runt over there is Toby.”

“Hey!”

“Well, you are!”

“Boys!”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Oh, and these are our pets. You want to meet them, right? Because you said in your letter ...”

Scowling, Miles Tanner clenched his hands into fists and pulled himself back into the chair. It wasn’t quite the enthusiastic greeting I was expecting. “Yes ... certainly . .. but perhaps another—”

Pete grabbed my collar and dragged me over to the brown velvet armchair. “This is Harold,” he told the author. “Be careful he doesn’t drool on you.”

Before I could register a complaint, Pete went on, “And that’s Chester. Watch out for him. He’s totally ...” He put his finger near his ear and made a circular motion.

Chester hissed.

“See?” Pete said.

Howie couldn’t stand it any longer. He began yipping a mile a minute. Loosely translated, his yips went something like this: Hey! What about me? I’m your biggest fan in the entire universe! I’ve read every one of your books! Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb is the best book in the entire universe! I want to be just like you when I grow up! Don’t you think I’d make an excellent character for one of your books? Aren’t I cute? Hey! What about me?

Miles Tanner’s only response to Howie’s tirade was to cover his ears and say, “Make him stop . . . please.”

Crushed, Howie stopped yipping immediately.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Monroe. “He’s a puppy. He’s easily excited.”

“That’s Howie for you,” said Pete. “I’ll bet he was barking at Edgar. He’s got this thing about crows.”

“Pete,” said Mr. Monroe, “why don’t you take the animals out of the room for a few minutes ? Let’s give our guest a chance to catch his breath.”

“Well, I never!” Chester exclaimed after Pete had unceremoniously dumped us in the kitchen. “‘Take the animals out of the room’? Ex-cu-u-u-use me!”

“M. T. Graves hates me,” Howie moaned. “Why did I have to yip so much? And why did Pete have to say I was barking at Edgar?”

“I’m telling you,” Chester said, “there is something wrong with this picture. We’ve got to find out what it is.”

“What are you talking about now?” I asked.

“What am I talking about now? What am I talking about now? What am I talking about now? What am I talking—”

“I believe that was the question.”

“What I’m talking about is, this is the man who is supposed to love animals so much. But look at him! He couldn’t care less—except for that weird bird on his shoulder. What a creepy twosome they make! I’m telling you, he just wants to use us, Harold. We’ve got to be on our toes the whole time he’s in this house, do you understand?”

“I can’t be on my toes the whole time, Pop,” Howie whined. “I’ll tip over.”

Chester grimaced. “Why do I waste my . . . wait a minute, we’re wasting time right now! Follow me.”

Against my better judgment, I followed Chester out of the kitchen and down the hall to where we were within earshot of the conversation going on in the living room.

“And tomorrow we’re planning a lunch in your honor,” Mrs. Monroe was saying. “There will be a few guests. The principal. Pete’s English teacher, of course. The librarian.”

“Ms. Pickles,” Kyle put in. “That’s her name. She has to spend the first two weeks of school every year getting the new kids not to laugh when they say it. It’s pretty funny, though, right? I mean, not that it’s right to laugh at somebody’s name, but you kind of can’t help laughing when you say ‘pickles,’ especially when it’s a person’s name. Try it. You’ll see what I’m talking about. Anyway, she’s really nice. You’ll like her. Not that I know who you’ll like or anything, but . . . oh, and just wait until you see how many of your books are in the library. Hey, what are you going to talk about when you come to our school? Did you bring pictures of your wolves and bats and—”

Mrs. Monroe cleared her throat. “Thank you, Kyle. Now, let’s see, did I leave anyone out?”

“I’m not doing anything tomorrow,” Kyle said.

“Well, Kyle, would you like to join us?” Mrs. Monroe asked politely. “We’ll be eating at twelve thirty.”

“Wow, could I, Mrs. Monroe? That would be awesome. You don’t really drink blood, do you, Mr. Graves ... I mean, Mr. Tanner? Because I read somewhere that you do, and I gotta tell you, the sight of blood kind of grosses me out. Nothing personal.”

Mrs. Monroe laughed nervously. This was something else I’d never heard her do before. “I’m sure Mr. Tanner doesn’t drink blood, Kyle,” she said.

“Good,” said Kyle. “I mean, it’s a free country and all, but—”

“Oh, could Amber come, too?” Pete asked.

“Ooh, Amber, your girlfriend,” Toby said.

“She is not”

“She is so. Everybody says.”

“Boys! Mr. Tanner, I’m sorry, I can see this is getting to be too much. Kyle is welcome to join us, Pete, but no more guests, okay? Mr. Tanner, are you all right? You look a little ...”

“Tired,” the low voice rumbled. “May I ... lie down?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Monroe. “We’ll show you to your room. Dinner will be in an hour. And it will just be the family tonight, no guests. We’ll be having my husband’s vegetarian lasagna and salad with no dressing, just the way you asked.”

“But—” Tanner began.

“Oh, and Bunnicula is up in your room,” said Mr. Monroe.

“Just the way you asked,” Pete said.

“In my room? But won’t he be—”

Tanner’s words were cut off by the sound of wings flapping as Edgar suddenly flew from his shoulders and began circling the room.

“Edgar!” Tanner cried out. “Come back here!”

Edgar continued to fly about the room. His beak opened and closed, but no sound came out. His eerie silence was offset by the loud and somehow threatening caws of the crows outside.

“What on earth is going on?” Mr. Monroe asked.

“Hey, Dad,” said Pete, “this is like that movie, The Birds. Remember?”

“I saw that movie,” Kyle chimed in. “We’d better board up the windows before the crows get inside and peck out our eyes. Maybe we should wear goggles. Or helmets. Mr. Monroe, do you have any plywood?”

Strangely, Chester wasn’t paying any attention to the commotion. “Howie,” he said, “you’ve got to run up to the guest room and hide under the bed.”

“Say what?”

“You heard me. You’ve got to hide under the bed. You’re the only one who will fit.”

“You’ll fit, Pop.”

“Yes, but I’m needed at Command Central.”

“Ah,” said Howie. “In that case, okay.”

Chester often says things like “I’m needed at Command Central” to get Howie to do what he wants.

“We’ve got to spy on those two,” Chester went on. “We can’t let them out of our sight. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I’m going to find out. And you’re the one who’s going to do the finding out for me!”

“Awesome!” said Howie, as if Chester had just pinned a junior detective badge on him.

“Hurry, while everyone is distracted!”

“Okay, Pop, I’m going. Gee, maybe I’ll overhear some writing tips. Would that be okay?”

“Fine, fine. Whatever. But don’t get so hung up on adjectives that you miss the important stuff.”

“What’s an adjective?” Howie asked.

“A describing word,” Chester explained. “Now get moving.”

Howie pondered this. “Oh, like in the sentence, ‘Howie is a funny, smart, and cute-as-a-button puppy,’ the words ‘funny’, ‘smart’, and ‘cute-as-a-button’ are adjectives?”

Chester rolled his eyes. “Something like that,” he said. “Now would you please—”

“I’ve never understood what’s so cute about buttons,” I interjected.

“Would you please get going?” Chester implored Howie as he glowered at me.

“I’m gone,” Howie said. And he scampered up the stairs and out of sight.

“Once again, Chester,” I said, “you are making a case out of nothing. Other than Miles Tanner being a little peculiar...”

“Not just him. What about the bird? What’s up with the silent treatment?”

“Maybe he has laryngitis,” I suggested, thinking how nice it would be if Chester had laryngitis on occasion.

“Maybe he does,” Chester replied. “And maybe when he gets his voice back, the first thing he will say is—”

“‘Nevermore.’ I know. But a bunch of maybes is all you’ve got, Chester. What evidence do you have that Tanner is up to anything?”

Chester began to bathe his tail.

“Aha!” I said. “You don’t have any evidence, do you?”

“May we help you get your bags from the car?” I heard Mr. Monroe ask as everyone entered the hallway where Chester and I were lurking about. Edgar had returned to his master’s shoulder, and the crows outside had quieted down.

“Thank you,” the author replied. “But leave the black bag with the silver clasp. I’ll . . . bring that one . . . in.”

“It’s okay, we can get everything, Mr. Tanner,” said Kyle. “I’m strong. I’ve been working out. Between Pete and me, we can—”

“NO!” Miles Tanner boomed. Immediately dropping his voice, he said, “I’m sorry, but... I’ll fetch ... the black bag ... myself.”

So shocked that he forgot to take his tail out of his mouth, Chester turned to me and asked, “Wath it evidenth you were after, Harold?”