Nighty-Nightmare by James Howe Page B

T-shirt. “And look, Uncle Harold, it’s ripped.”
    Chester’s eyes grew wide. “A struggle,” he said.
    â€œNonsense,” I said, not wanting to believe what my eyes were telling me. “The Monroes aren’t here because . . . because . . . because they’re somewhere else.”
    â€œI 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—”
    â€œBlood!”
    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.
    â€œI 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 ]

Trails End
    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 somethingabout 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!”
    â€œSoup?” 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.”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œI 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—”
    â€œKetchup,” Chester interjected.
    â€œWhatever,” said Howie. “If it doesn’t lead to this bottle, then where
does
it lead?”
    â€œThere,” 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.
    â€œYou’ve brought us full circle,” I said. I was beginning to believe that there really was something to Chester’s suspicions. “Why?”
    â€œBecause that’s where you’ll find Bud and Spud,” Dawg said. “And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll find your family there, too.”
    â€œWhat are they
doing
there?” Howie asked Dawg.
    â€œWell, if it’s Bud and Spud you mean,”