Nighty-Nightmare by James Howe Page A

“If Dawg went back to camp,” I told Chester, “I would ordinarily be able to follow his scent. But I’m afraid this fresh rain has wiped out that possibility.”
    â€œRats,” Chester muttered. “Well, we’ll just have to find our way back as best we can.”
    We were all set to start out when Howie cried, “Look, Uncle Harold! Look, Pop! He’s back!”
    There, winding his way through the trees in our direction, was Dawg.
    â€œDID YOU HEAR all the commotion?” he asked when he reached us. “I tried to follow it, but the ground was too wet and I lost the trail. Boy, the rain’s been coming down for hours. You guys woulda slept through anything.”
    â€œAnd probably did,” said Chester, under his breath. “You been up long, Dawg?” he asked.
    â€œA couple hours. Chester, did you know you whistle when you sleep?”
    Seeing the look in Chester’s eye, I jumped in before he could respond. “Uh, the longer we stand here,” I pointed out, “the wetter we get. How about taking us back to camp, Dawg?”
    â€œThat’s just what I was going to do,” said Dawg. “I was about to wake you, but then I heard the noise and took off after it. Like I say, I lost it.”
    Chester regarded Dawg suspiciously. “Have you lost your memory concerning the whereabouts of camp as well?”
    â€œNah. It’s just down through the woods apiece. You fellas all set to head back?”
    â€œHow 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?
    â€œThere 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 sourballs (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.
    â€œBoy, 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.
    â€œWhere’d you find that?” I asked.
    â€œOver by that log,” Howie said, dropping the