Free Bunnicula Strikes Again! by James Howe

standing near the trucks, were several burly men glancing at their watches.
    â€œThey’re going to start tearing the building down soon,” I said to Howie. “I hope we didn’t wait too long!”
    Making sure we weren’t being watched, we sneaked down the alley next to the theater until we came to a door marked STAGE ENTRANCE. Luckily, it was open, probably to allow the workers to make their final preparations.
    â€œOkay, Howie, this is it,” I said. “We’ve got to move fast. Are you nervous?”
    â€œWh-h-h-h-ho, m-m-m-m-me?” Howie replied. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth, his breath was coming in quick, short pants. “N-n-n-no, I’m n-n-not n-n-n-n-n-nervous!”
    I decided this was no time for a debate. “Good,” I said, “then let’s go.”
    The theater was dark and cool inside. Enough light leaked through from cracks and windows here and there to help us see where we were going, but we still managed to bump into things with every fifth or sixth step. Every time we did, Howie would yip excitedly.

    â€œSsh!” I admonished him. “We don’t want to scare Bunnicula.”
    And then softly, softly I called out his name: “Bun-nic-ula! Bun-nic-ula!”
    â€œBunnicula!” Howie echoed. “It’s us, Howie and Harold.”
    The farther we crept into the abandoned theater, the creepier the shadows became, the eerier the silence. At one point, I thought I heard something moving. I stopped and listened and realized that all I’d been hearing was the pounding of my own heart.
    We were in the middle of a very large and very empty room. Having never been in a movie theater before, I couldn’t make much sense of it. Then I remembered Mr. Monroe saying that all the seats were being taken out before the demolition began. Apparently, this was the room where people came to watch the movies. There at one end was a big white wall. And there at the other end was a wall with two doors in it. Very high in the center of that wall was a small square opening neatly framing the silhouette of a figure—a figure with two tall ears.
    â€œBunnicula,” I said in a hushed voice.
    Howie heard me and looked up, too.
    â€œBut, Uncle Harold,” he said, “How can Bunnicula be awake? It’s daytime.”
    â€œThere’s no sunlight in here,” I pointed out. “Bunnicula must think it’s still night. Now come on—we don’t have a moment to lose.”
    As we made our way cautiously out of the large, empty room, through one of the doors, and up a set of stairs that would take us—I hoped—to the small square opening in the wall that held our friend Bunnicula, I heard the same clock I’d heard the night before. Only now, it chimed nine times.
    Nine o’clock. Why, I asked myself, did that seem significant?
    And then I remembered. The demolition was scheduled to begin at nine o’clock this Tuesday morning.
    I picked up the pace, and Howie scampered after me. At the top of the stairs, we came to a half-open door. Behind it was a small room—and there on the wall to our left was the opening we’d seen from below. In the shadowy light, I could make out a pair of eyes glistening. Red eyes. Frightened eyes.
    â€œBunnicula!” I cried. I was all set to leap up and grab him by the neckwhen another set of eyes stopped me dead in my tracks.
    â€œUncle Harold!” Howie called out in alarm. He too had seen them. I could hear him panting rapidly behind me.
    â€œIs it B-Bunnicula’s m-mother?” he sputtered. Was it? I asked myself. Or was it someone else? Something else? Had Howie’s FleshCrawler books gotten to me? Was I imagining some sort of creature who lived in the movie theater, some beast who was about to leap out from the shadows and attack?
    There was no time to waste. Either the beast would get us or the wrecking ball would.
    â€œWho are you?”