Nighty-Nightmare (9 page)

Chester regarded Dawg suspiciously. “Have you lost your memory concerning the whereabouts of camp as well?”

“Nah. It's just down through the woods apiece. You fellas all set to head back?”

“How interesting,” said Chester, “that you know the way so clearly this morning when you couldn't have found it last night to save your life. Or anybody else's.”

Dawg gave Chester a puzzled look. “I wasn't trying to find camp last night,” he said. “I was trying to find the house. I got lost. Don't you believe me?”

Chester said nothing.

Dawg's puzzled look was replaced by one of admiration. “You know, Chester,” he said, “that was some story you told last night. It really scared me. I mean it put me to sleep and all. But did I have dreams!” The scar on his jowl glistened as he turned to lead us back to camp.

Dreams played on my mind as I followed along. We had all heard sounds in the night. Were they real or were they nightmares? Were Chester's fears just dreams of an over-vivid imagination, or was it possible that the spirit of evil was a reality with different names—and three of those names were Bud, Spud and Dawg?

What would we find, I asked myself, when we returned to camp? The rain was letting up now. It was starting to get light. Would the Monroes be stirring in their tent, surprised and happy to see us coming home? Would Toby run out and throw his arms around my neck and tell me how he'd worried about me all night long? Would Mr. Monroe pat my head and scratch the spot between my ears? Would Mrs. Monroe wipe me down with a big, soft towel?

“There it is!” I heard Dawg call out. In the distance, I saw the campsite. And all my thoughts turned into dreams.

It was deserted. The Monroes were gone. And so were Bud and Spud.

We ran down the slope past the charred remains of a fire. The Monroes' tent, a tarp once held up by poles and clothesline, had collapsed and was now a muddy landscape of canvas peaks and puddled valleys. I sniffed beneath it and was overcome by the scent of wet rubber and mildew. I thought I detected the odor of Mr. Monroe's sour
balls (cherry, I think) and Pete's socks, as well, but those faint aromas were mere traces, shadows of another time darkening the doorways of my nasal passages.

“Boy, they sure must have left in a hurry,” Howie said. His words were somewhat garbled by the piece of clothing he carried in his mouth. As he came closer, I recognized it as one of Toby's T-shirts.

“Where'd you find that?” I asked.

“Over by that log,” Howie said, dropping the T-shirt. “And look, Uncle Harold, it's ripped.”

Chester's eyes grew wide. “A struggle,” he said.

“Nonsense,” I said, not wanting to believe what my eyes were telling me. “The Monroes aren't here because . . . because . . . because they're somewhere else.”

“I love your mind, Harold,” said Chester. “Let's take that logic a little further, shall we? Their tent is collapsed, their belongings are strewn about the place, their clothes are torn, everywhere you look there's—”

“Blood!”

Chester and I jerked our heads to see Howie staring down at the ground. “Blood, Pop,” he said. “Uncle Harold, blood!” Could the pool at our feet really be what it seemed? Our eyes followed the reddish trail that led off into the woods.

We looked back at each other, too stunned to speak.

“I know where they are,” a voice said. It was Dawg. In all the excitement, we'd forgotten all about him. “I know where they are,” he repeated. “Follow me.”

Chester and I regarded each other uncertainly. How did Dawg know where the Monroes had gone, unless Bud and Spud were with them? If we followed him, where would he take us? If we didn't follow him, would we ever see home—or the Monroes—again?

And, in the end, what choice did we have?

[
NINE
]

T
RAILING DAWG, we wound our way along a well-worn path among the trees. It was barely raining now; the sun was beginning to shine through the clouds. Every few steps we would find another pool of water tinted pinkishred. Even though the faint odor wasn't exactly bloodlike, we knew we were on a trail of evil. We just didn't know where it would lead.

Howie, as usual, was well ahead of us. Suddenly, he called out, “Pop, don't come any closer! Stay where you are!”

Chester arched his back, his hair rising straight and tall like a Mohawk Indian's. I suppose I should have been alarmed, too, but there was something
about Howie's warning only Chester that made me brave enough to run ahead.

Howie stood beside an empty bottle. Dawg was sniffing at it. “Uncle Harold,” Howie whined, “the blood ends here. Pop isn't safe. They're going to make him into... into soup!”

“Soup?” I said. I was completely at a loss as to what he meant until I read the label. “Catsup,” I read aloud, though of course I pronounced it “ketchup.”

“That doesn't say
cat soup?”
Howie asked, surprised.

Chester was now close enough to hear our conversation. “And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Further evidence of the damage to the brain caused by chewing on bones and chasing sticks.”

“I believe,” Dawg said, “that yer friend is making a crack about dogs.” He growled.

I was about to step in, when Howie yipped loudly. “Pop!” he said. “Dawg! Uncle Harold, wait a minute! I don't understand. If the trail of blood—”

“Ketchup,” Chester interjected.

“Whatever,” said Howie. “If it doesn't lead to this bottle, then where
does
it lead?”

“There,” Dawg said matter-of-factly, forgetting his anger toward Chester. We looked ahead, and in a clearing was the house from the night before. It seemed less forbidding by day, but I couldn't help remembering Chester's name for it—an American House of Dr.E.A.D.

“You've brought us full circle,” I said. I was beginning to believe that there really was something to Chester's suspicions. “Why?”

“Because that's where you'll find Bud and Spud,” Dawg said. “And if I'm not mistaken, you'll find your family there, too.”

“What are they
doing
there?” Howie asked Dawg.

“Well, if it's Bud and Spud you mean,” said Dawg, “they live there. As for yer kin, I couldn't say. All I know is this is where the trail is leading us.”

Chester eyed Dawg coolly, doing a pretty fair imitation of Humphrey Bogart on the late show.

“So,” he said, in a low voice, “if Bud and Spud live there, that means you live there, too.” Dawg nodded, the ribbon of drool bobbing up and down with his head. “Why didn't you tell us that last night?”

Dawg shrugged. “You were so shook up by the place,” he said, “I didn't have a chance. Besides, I liked yer story better'n the truth. Listen fellas, it looks like it's gonna start comin' down again. What'd ya say we move this conversation indoors?”

Somewhat reluctantly, we agreed. “A trap,” Chester muttered as we crossed the clearing and drew nearer to the house. “We're doomed, Harold. Have you any last words?”

“When's breakfast?” I said, taking hope from the light in what looked to be a kitchen.

Dawg headed in that direction and scratched at the back door. I heard footsteps. They sounded familiar. Like those of . . . .

“Erda!” Chester squealed, as the door opened and an eagle-eyed, hawk-nosed woman peered
down at us. “The housekeeper, Harold. My worst fantasies are coming true. Bud and Spud are really Fritz and Hans. There's a laboratory somewhere, a laboratory where experiments are done on innocent, little—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the woman at the door grabbed him up into her arms and held him tight. “Nice kitty,” she said. “Why, Teufel, who've you brought home? Oh, I know, these must be our guests' lost pets. Now, won't they be happy to see you?”

Chester looked at me wildly. “Bark,” he hissed.

“Oh, Chester, you know how I feel about—”

“Unless you have something better to do this morning than live, Harold, bark!”

“Well, since you put it that way,” I said, and set about woofing for everything I was worth.

Howie joined in with some high-pitched yips of his own. Without thinking, the woman put her hands to her ears, and in so doing dropped Chester to the ground. He lost no time in bolting for the door, but found it closed. “No escape,” he
snapped. Dawg, meanwhile, just sat back and watched as if the three of us had gone completely mad.

“Stop this!” the woman cried. “Stop this racket at once, hear? You'll raise the dead!”

“Too late for that,” Chester cracked and started for a door leading to the rest of the house. Howie and I ran after him, barking all the while, only to be stopped by the shadow that fell across the threshhold of the room.

“What's all the fuss?” said a voice I recognized as Bud's. I looked up and saw that he was rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Chester tried to squeeze between Bud's legs and the doorjamb, but Bud moved just in time to catch him in the ribs. “Now, hold on there, cat,” he said, “where do you think you're going? Why's everybody in such a uproar this mornin?”

“I think they're jes worked up over bein' out in the rain all night,” the woman said. “Ain't that so, critters? I'll give 'em all some breakfast and you go on upstairs and finish yer sleepin'.”

I saw Chester twitching to be free. When his
struggles got him nowhere, he sighed heavily and dropped his head. Bud reached down and picked him up. “Nah,” he said. “I hear the others comin'. Why don't we all have breakfast?” He carried Chester to the kitchen table and sat down.

“Well,” Chester said, over Bud's elbow, “you're getting your last request.”

I felt my eyes tearing up again. “I guess breakfast isn't so important,” I said. “What I really wish is that I could see the Monroes.”

“Looks like you're getting that wish, too, Uncle Harold,” Howie said. “Here they come.”

All at once the room was filled with people. Toby ran to me and threw his arms around my neck just as I'd imagined only an hour earlier. Mr. Monroe patted me, then scratched me between the ears. Mrs. Monroe cooed at Howie, and Pete ignored us all. It was almost like being home. Almost . . . except for the strange woman with the eagle eyes, the scar-faced dog, the man at the table who wouldn't let Chester go, and the other man at the door who even at six o'clock in the morning was fondling a knife.

The woman began to busy herself at the refrigerator. “How about some milk, folks?”

“I don't drink milk,” Bud said. Chester and I exchanged worried glances.

“Now how are you going to grow up to be big and strong if you don't drink your milk?” the woman said. “Your brother drinks it all the time, and look at him.”

Spud flexed a muscle.

“I'm so glad the animals are safe,” Mrs. Monroe said. She took Chester from Bud and petted him gently. “I was so worried I hardly slept.”

“Well, I told ya Dawg knew his way around here,” said Bud. “I knew there was nothin' to worry about so long as they was with him.”

“And fortunately we were with you,” Mrs. Monroe said. “I can't thank you enough for taking us in out of that terrible storm, Bud.”

The other woman shook her head. “I have ta laugh every time I hear him called that,” she said. “It isn't his right name, you know.”

Chester jumped out of Mrs. Monroe's arms,
landing by my side. “This is it,” he said. “Meet Fritz and Hans, the long-lost Transylvanian twins.”

“No?” said Mrs. Monroe, brushing cat hairs off her borrowed robe.

“Nope. This here's Buford. And the other one is Spalding. They picked up those silly nicknames at college.”

“College?” said Mr. Monroe.

“Well, shore,” the woman replied. “My boys graduated cum-loudy. Buford here is a architect. Spalding practices law.”