Nighty-Nightmare by James Howe

[ EDITOR’S NOTE ]
    SOON AFTER THE PUBLISHING HOUSE for which I work was purchased by a large manufacturer of computers and herbal soft drinks, I found myself cleaning out my desk in preparation for a move to new quarters. Feeling a little melancholy, I was delighted to discover in the very bottom drawer a manuscript of
Bunnicula, A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery.
This was one of my first books as an editor, and it brought back happy memories of the afternoon its canine author, Harold X., appeared at my door, the typewritten pages clenched in his teeth.
    I hadn’t seen Harold in a long time, not since before he’d hired a literary agent to handle his affairs. Wondering what had become of him (and eager to find out if he’d written anything since his last book,
The Celery Stalks at Midnight),
I rang up his agent, only to be informed by a machine that she had given up her business to become a yoga instructor. I replaced the receiver and wondered if I would ever see Harold again.
    Gently I laid the manuscript at the top of the box of items I would personally move to my new office, reflecting once again on the changing times. You can well imagine my delight when a few days later I saw Harold’s familiar face peek round the edge of my half-open door.
    I dashed down the hall to the nearest vending machine, so we could celebrate our reunion over a chocolate bar. Happily I munched my half while reading the note accompanying Harold’s new manuscript:
    Dear friend,
    My literary agent and I have parted ways. She wanted to call my new book
Beyond the Further Adventures of Bunnicula: The Final Hare, or Terror in the Woods Part IV—The Book.
She said it would look great in paperback. Personally, I couldn’t see it. In any event, shortly after she failed to sell the T-shirt rights to her latest best seller, she changed careers.
    Perhaps it is for the best. Now I can concentrate on writing without my mind being cluttered with commercial concerns. Knowing that you share with me a devotion to Literature, I hope you
will find this latest effort worthy of your consideration.
    Yours sincerely,
Harold X.
          
    After Harold left, I pushed aside the fleeting thought that the title
Nighty-Nightmare
would look great on a sleepshirt and began to read.

[ ONE ]

The Adventure
    I T BEGAN on the bottom of a canoe in the middle of Boggy Lake, some sixty miles from home and fifty yards from solid ground. Thegentle rocking of the boat was lulling me to sleep when I felt Mr. Monroe’s hand come to rest on that spot between the tops of my ears where the hair goes every which way and the scalp seems to lie forever in wait for a little love and attention. I sighed. Three pats usually led to some vigorous scratching. But this time something was wrong. Mr. Monroe didn’t lift his hand after the second pat. Instead, he left it there flat and heavy, like an iron forgotten in the rush of attending to more pressing matters.
    I looked up, hoping to hear that he’d grown tired of fishing and was ready to head back to the cabin and cook up some s’mores. Ever since Toby and Pete had introduced me to those gooey, crispy, chocolaty delights the summer before, I couldn’t get enough. But s’mores were not what was on Mr. Monroe’s mind. Alas. No, he was in the mood for reflection. And who better to share such moments, he was undoubtedly thinking, than man’s best friend himself?
    â€œHarold,” he said, staring off at the pine trees along the lake’s edge, “I’m going to be forty soon.
    You know what that means, don’t you?”
    Birthday cake, I thought.
    â€œIt means half my life is over. Half my road is traveled. Half my songs are sung.” I’d never thought about middle age that way before. Gee, I thought, half my naps are taken.
    I whimpered sympathetically.
    Mr. Monroe looked at me and smiled. “You understand what I’m talking about,