Bunnicula Read online

  MORE THAN 8 MILLION BUNNICULA BOOKS IN PRINT!

  Before it’s too late, Harold the dog and Chester the cat must find out the truth about the newest pet in the Monroe household—a suspicious-looking bunny with unusual habits . . . and fangs!

  “Bunnicula is the kind of story that does not age, and in all probability, will never die. Or stay dead, anyway . . . ”

  —NEIL GAIMAN

  “The most lovable vampire of all time.”

  —J. GORDON MELTON, author of The Vampire Book

  “Move over, Dracula! This mystery-comedy is sure to delight.”

  —New York Times

  Don’t miss any of the adventures of Bunnicula, the vampire rabbit, and his pals Harold, Chester, and Howie:

  Atheneum Books for Young Readers

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  Cover designed by Russell Gordon

  Cover illustration copyright © 2006 by C. F. Payne

  Ages 8–12

  www.SimonSaysKids.com

  Books by James Howe

  Bunnicula Books

  Bunnicula (with Deborah Howe)

  Howliday Inn

  The Celery Stalks at Midnight

  Nighty-Nightmare

  Return to Howliday Inn

  Bunnicula Strikes Again!

  Bunnicula and Friends

  The Vampire Bunny

  Hot Fudge

  Picture Books

  There’s a Monster Under My Bed

  There’s a Dragon in My Sleeping Bag

  Teddy Bear’s Scrapbook (with Deborah Howe)

  Horace and Morris but Mostly Dolores

  Horace and Morris Join the Chorus (but what about Dolores?)

  Kaddish for Grandpa in Jesus’ name amen

  Tales from the House of Bunnicula

  It Came from Beneath the Bed!

  Invasion of the Mind Swappers from Asteroid 6!

  Howie Monroe and the Doghouse of Doom

  Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb II

  Bud Barkin, Private Eye

  The Amazing Odorous Adventures of Stinky Dog

  Sebastian Barth Mysteries

  What Eric Knew

  Stage Fright

  Eat Your Poison, Dear

  Dew Drop Dead

  Pinky and Rex Series

  Pinky and Rex

  Pinky and Rex Get Married

  Pinky and Rex and the Mean Old Witch

  Pinky and Rex and the Spelling Bee

  Pinky and Rex Go to Camp

  Pinky and Rex and the New Baby

  Pinky and Rex and the Double-Dad Weekend

  Pinky and Rex and the Bully

  Pinky and Rex and the New Neighbors

  Pinky and Rex and the Perfect Pumpkin

  Pinky and Rex and the School Play

  Pinky and Rex and the Just-Right Pet

  Novels

  A Night Without Stars

  Morgan’s Zoo

  The Watcher

  The Misfits

  Edited by James Howe

  The Color of Absence: Twelve Stories about Loss and Hope

  13: Thirteen Stories That Capture the Agony and Ecstasy of Being Thirteen

  Atheneum Books for Young Readers

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1979 by James Howe

  Illustrations copyright © 1979 by Alan Daniel

  Preface copyright © 2004 by James Howe

  ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Book design by Anne Scatto / PIXEL PRESS

  The text of this book is set in Stemple Garamond.

  The illustrations are rendered in pen and ink.

  38 40 39

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Howe, Deborah.

  Bunnicula: a rabbit-tale of mystery / by Deborah and James Howe;

  illustrated by Alan Daniel.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Though scoffed at by Harold the dog, Chester the cat tries to warn his human family that their foundling baby bunny must be a vampire.

  ISBN 978-0-689-30700-3 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-4391-3205-0 (eBook)

  [1. Rabbits—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. 3. Mystery and detective

  stories.] I. Howe, James, 1946–. II. Daniel, Alan, 1939– . III. Title.

  PZ7.H836Bu 1979

  [Fic]—dc80 78-11472

  To

  Mildred and Lester Smith—

  with Love

  Contents

  A FEW WORDS ON THE HUMBLE ORIGINS OF A VAMPIRE RABBIT, THE ETERNAL YOUTH OF A FICTIONAL DOG, AND THE PASSAGE OF TIME

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  ONE

  The Arrival

  TWO

  Music in the Night

  THREE

  Some Unusual Goings-On

  FOUR

  A Cat Prepares

  FIVE

  Chester Goes into His Act

  SIX

  Harold Helps Out

  SEVEN

  A (New) Friend in Need

  EIGHT

  Disaster in the Dining Room

  NINE

  All’s Well that Ends Well . . . Almost

  A FEW WORDS ON THE HUMBLE ORIGINS OF A VAMPIRE RABBIT, THE ETERNAL YOUTH OF A FICTIONAL DOG, AND THE PASSAGE OF TIME

  1979?

  That is the year Bunnicula was first published.

  Impossible! Harold hasn’t grown any older. How is it that I have?

  Oh, that’s right, I’m not a fictional character. Just my luck. Sometimes I feel as if I were inside a story, though—one I could never have imagined, a story with thousands of characters, unexpected plot twists, and no end in sight. That’s the best part: It’s a story that’s still being written.

  It started with only a handful of characters. Two, to be exact. One night in 1977, two underemployed actors, a husband and wife who didn’t know the first thing about writing a children’s book, sat down at their tomato-red kitchen table and jotted some notes about a vampire rabbit and the “typical American family” with whom he came to reside. There were a brother and sister, their parents, a cat named Chester, and, of course, “Count Bunnicula,” the mysterious rabbit. By the next day, the brother and sister had become two brothers, and another pet had been added to the family—Harold, a dog.

  Bunnicula—A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery by Deborah and James Howe was published in April 1979. Debbie, who had been diagnosed with cancer several months into the writing of the book, did not live to see it in print. She died in June 1978, at the age of thirty-one. Getting on with my life as best I could, I continued with my day job as an assistant to a literary agent while going to school in the evenings to earn a master’s degree in theater directing. I had lost interest in an acting career and gave little thought to the book Debbie and I had written just for fun or the impact its publication might have—although, truth be told, the day I first held the published book in my hands was one of the most thrilling of my life.

  The impact, however, occurred grad
ually. One day I found an envelope in my mailbox with my name and address written in pencil in a childlike hand. What in the world can this be? I asked myself as I tore it open and withdrew the letter from inside. No wonder the handwriting had been childlike—the letter was from a child. It had never occurred to me that I would get actual letters from actual readers!

  And then there was my first invitation to speak in a school. When the day came, I wore a three-piece suit—that’s how important I thought it was. When Bunnicula won its first children’s choice award—Nebraska’s Golden Sower Award—I scribbled my acceptance speech on a scrap of paper while on the plane to Lincoln, Nebraska, only to be informed when I arrived that I was the morning program—three hours’ worth!—for an audience of librarians and teachers. It was that morning that I discovered I could think—and talk—on my feet!

  But I was discovering something else as well. Not only was Bunnicula becoming a popular book, it was taking on a life of its own—and that life was turning my life into the story with thousands of characters and unexpected plot twists. The large cast of characters included readers and parents, teachers and librarians, fellow authors and illustrators, and a vast array of publishing people—all of whom were absolutely devoted to something called “children’s literature.” I was becoming part of a world I hadn’t even known existed a few short years ago.

  In 1981 I left my job with the literary agency where I had worked for seven years, gave up my aspirations of becoming a theater director, and did what my mother had always said I should do. I became a writer. That year, I completed Howliday Inn, the first of six sequels to Bunnicula. That was also the year, I believe, that I was invited to be on a local TV children’s talk show in Baltimore, Maryland. I was on for all of two minutes at the end of the program, and the first question I was asked (by a twelve-year-old girl) was, “Why did you put all those hard words in your book?”

  Hard words? I had no idea I had put hard words in Bunnicula. I don’t remember what I answered, beyond, “Uh, um, er . . . ,” but I have often thought of that moment because it made me grateful that Debbie and I had not really known what we were doing when we wrote the book. We had no idea what kinds of books children were reading or how we might gear the vocabulary or sentence structure or humor to someone younger than ourselves. We wrote a book that made us laugh, that entertained us first and foremost.

  And that is a key to the book’s success, I think, because in writing something that truly made us laugh, we were able to make others laugh as well. Through the years, I have often been told that Bunnicula has opened the door to reading for many children—even with all those hard words. What an unexpected plot twist that was!

  There have been many other plot twists to Bunnicula—awards; translations into foreign languages; two audiotape versions; play adaptations that have been staged all across the country; an animated TV special back in the 1980s; picture books, chapter books, activity books, a joke book, and a pop-up book; a series featuring Howie the dachshund puppy (one of my favorite characters to write, Howie showed up unexpectedly at the end of Howliday Inn and has been an important part of the books ever since); letters and letters and more letters from readers; and, now, a whole new generation of readers. But the best plot twist of all is still the fact that this book has opened the door for so many young people to enter the world of reading.

  Bunnicula opened the door wide for me as well—to a life of writing and a world of characters—both real and fictional—that I could never have imagined sitting at that tomato-red kitchen table so long ago.

  Despite the difference in our ages, Harold is one of my oldest and dearest friends. Perhaps he is one of yours, too. Or perhaps you are about to meet him for the first time as you turn the pages that follow. Welcome—or welcome back—to his story, and thank you for being a part of my own.

  —J. H.

  Editor’s Note

  The book you are about to read was brought to my attention in a most unusual way. One Friday afternoon, just before closing time, I heard a scratching sound at the front door of my office. When I opened the door, there before me stood a sad-eyed, droopy-eared dog carrying a large, plain envelope in his mouth. He dropped it at my feet, gave me a soulful glance and with great, quiet dignity sauntered away.

  Inside the envelope was the manuscript of the book you now hold in your hands, together with this letter:

  Gentlemen:

  The enclosed story is true. It happened in this very town, to me and the family with whom I reside. I have changed the names of the family in order to protect them, but in all other respects, everything you will read here is factual.

  Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harold. I come to writing purely by chance. My full-time occupation is dog. I live with Mr. and Mrs. X (called here the “Monroes”) and their two sons: Toby, age eight, and Pete, age ten. Also sharing our home is a cat named Chester, whom I am pleased to call my friend. We were a typical American family—and still are, though the events related in my story have, of course, had their effect on our lives.

  I hope you will find this tale of sufficient interest to yourself and your readers to warrant its publication.

  Sincerely,

  Harold X

  One

  The Arrival

  I shall never forget the first time I laid these now tired old eyes on our visitor. I had been left home by the family with the admonition to take care of the house until they returned. That’s something they always say to me when they go out: “Take care of the house, Harold. You’re the watchdog.” I think it’s their way of making up for not taking me with them. As if I wanted to go anyway. You can’t lie down at the movies and still see the screen. And people think you’re being impolite if you fall asleep and start to snore, or scratch yourself in public. No thank you, I’d rather be stretched out on my favorite rug in front of a nice, whistling radiator.

  But I digress. I was talking about that first night. Well, it was cold, the rain was pelting the windows, the wind was howling, and it felt pretty good to be indoors. I was lying on the rug with my head on my paws just staring absently at the front door. My friend Chester was curled up on the brown velvet armchair, which years ago he’d staked out as his own. I saw that once again he’d covered the whole seat with his cat hair, and I chuckled to myself, picturing the scene tomorrow. (Next to grasshoppers, there is nothing that frightens Chester more than the vacuum cleaner.)

  In the midst of this reverie, I heard a car pull into the driveway. I didn’t even bother to get up and see who it was. I knew it had to be my family—the Monroes—since it was just about time for the movie to be over. After a moment, the front door flew open. There they stood in the doorway: Toby and Pete and Mom and Dad Monroe. There was a flash of lightning, and in its glare I noticed that Mr. Monroe was carrying a little bundle—a bundle with tiny glistening eyes.

  Pete and Toby bounded into the room, both talking at the top of their lungs. Toby shouted, “Put him over here, Dad.”

  “Take your boots off. You’re soaking wet,” replied his mother, somewhat calmly I thought, under the circumstances.

  “But Mom, what about the—”

  “First, stop dripping on the carpet.”

  “Would somebody like to take this?” asked Mr. Monroe, indicating the bundle with the eyes. “I’d like to remove my coat.”

  “I will,” Pete yelled.

  “No, I will,” said Toby. “I found him.”

  “You’ll drop him.”

  “I will not.”

  “You will, too.”

  “Mom, Pete punched me!”

  “I’ll take him,” said Mrs. Monroe. “Take off your coats this minute!” But she became so involved in helping the boys out of their coats that she didn’t take him at all.

  My tranquil evening had been destroyed and no one had even said hello to me. I whimpered to remind them that I was there.

  “Harold!” cried Toby. “Guess what happened to me.” And then, all over again, everyone sta
rted talking at once.

  At this point, I feel I must explain something. In our family, everyone treats everyone else with great respect for his or her intelligence. That goes for the animals as well as the people. Everything that happens to them is explained to us. It’s never been just “Good boy, Harold,” or “Use the litter box, Chester” at our house. Oh no, with us it’s “Hey Harold, Dad got a raise and now we’re in a higher tax bracket,” or “Come sit on the bed, Chester, and watch this Wild Kingdom show. Maybe you’ll see a relative.” Which shows just how thoughtful they are. But after all, Mr. Monroe is a college professor and Mrs. Monroe is a lawyer, so we think of it as a rather special household. And we are, therefore, rather special pets. So it wasn’t at all surprising to me that they took the time to explain the strange circumstances surrounding the arrival of the little bundle with the glistening eyes now among us.

  It seems that they had arrived at the theater late, and rather than trip over the feet of the audience already seated, they decided to sit in the last row, which was empty. They tiptoed in and sat down very quietly, so they wouldn’t disturb anyone. Suddenly, Toby, who’s the little one, sprang up from his chair and squealed that he had sat on something. Mr. Monroe told him to stop making a fuss and move to another seat, but in an unusual display of independence, Toby said he wanted to see just what it was he had sat on. An usher came over to their row to shush them, and Mr. Monroe borrowed his flashlight. What they found on Toby’s chair was the little blanketed bundle that was now sitting on Mr. Monroe’s lap.

  They now unwrapped the blanket, and there in the center was a tiny black and white rabbit, sitting in a shoebox filled with dirt. A piece of paper had been tied to his neck with a ribbon. There were words on the paper, but the Monroes were unable to decipher them because they were in a totally unfamiliar language. I moved closer for a better look.

  Now, most people might call me a mongrel, but I have some pretty fancy bloodlines running through these veins and Russian wolfhound happens to be one of them. Because my family got around a lot, I was able to recognize the language as an obscure dialect of the Carpathian Mountain region. Roughly translated, it read, “Take good care of my baby.” But I couldn’t tell if it was a note from a bereaved mother or a piece of Roumanian sheet music.