Nighty-Nightmare by James Howe

someone—or something—moving about. Every time I ran toward the sounds, they would disappear and startagain from another part of the forest. I ran and ran, first toward them, then away, never knowing who or what was making them, always frightened they would find me before I could find them.
    It was a different sound that woke me shortly before dawn—the sound of rain. I listened for a time to its patter on the leaves above me, my brain too foggy to make sense of where I was or why I should be afraid. I just knew that I was getting wet, and that I
was
afraid.
    â€œWhat a night,” I heard Chester say beside me. “They were all around us, Harold.”
    â€œWho?” I said, yawning loudly.
    â€œThe spirits. Didn’t you hear them?”
    I thought for a moment. “I heard sounds,” I said. “Do you mean they could have been—”
    â€œOf course,” said Chester. “‘The fifth of May is Saint George’s Day. When midnight tolls, the devil has sway.’”
    â€œAnd while the cat’s asleep, the dog runs away,” I added.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    I nodded toward the spot where Howie andDawg had fallen asleep the night before. Howie was opening his eyes. He was alone.
    â€œDawg gone!” he exclaimed.
    â€œJust as I thought,” said Chester. “He merely pretended to sleep. Oh, what fools we’ve been. Why couldn’t we have stayed awake!”
    â€œWhat is it, Pop?” Howie asked, quickly on his feet and at our side. “Did Dawg do something wrong?”
    â€œNot in your eyes, certainly,” Chester replied. He too was on his feet now, pacing nervously. “It all fits into place, just as I suspected. Harold, get up.”
    I stretched lazily. “Do I have to?” I asked.
    â€œDo you ever want to see your family again?” he retorted. “Alive?”
    I bounded to my feet. “Is it Bud and Spud?” I asked nervously. “Have they done something to the Monroes?”
    Howie started to sniffle. “Maybe they know about Bunnicula,” he said. “Maybe they’ve kidnapped the Monroes to force them to give back Bunnicula!”
    â€œI think you’re confusing things,” I told Howie. “It was Fritz and Hans who wanted Bunnicula, not Bud and Spud. Besides, that story was make-believe.’ ‘
    â€œHah!” “Hah!” Chester snorted. “Woe unto you who believeth not.”
    â€œOn the contrary,” I said. “Woe unto me who has believethed you too many times. How could that story be real, Chester? And where did you hear it in the first place?”
    Chester paused long enough to bathe a paw. An evasive tactic, if ever I’d seen one. “My sources are confidential,” he said at last. It was my turn to snort. “Besides, that story doesn’t matter right now. What matters is the fate of the Monroes. I believe that Bud and Spud and Dawg were the evil spirits in these woods last night. I believe that Dawg purposely got us lost and wore us out so we’d be out of his masters’ way all night. I believe that Bud and Spud had harmful intentions regarding the Monroes. I believe we may be too late.”
    â€œAnd woe until you who believeth not, Uncle Harold,” said Howie, beginning to cry in earnest.
    I confess I felt my own eyes dampening. “I hope for all our sakes that you’re wrong, Chester,’ I said. “Otherwise, we’ll. . . we’ll be orphans. And I’m too old to be an orphan!”
    â€œWe have to get back to camp, Harold,” Chester said. “Now!”
    â€œThere’s only one problem,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIt’s pouring.” The drenched leaves above our heads were no longer protecting us. Even though I’ve never cared for the smell of wet dog hair, it wasn’t that that concerned me as much as the difficulty of tracking in the rain.