Summary

James Howeis the author of more than seventy books for youngreaders, including the popular and award-winning series about Bunniculaand his friends. Among his other books are the Pinky and Rex series,The Misfits,Totally Joe, and the Sebastian Barth mysteries.James did not enjoy camping when he was a boy, but he did always wish hehad a pet skunk. He still does wish this at times, but for the most parthe's happy with the dog and two cats who share his home in New York State.James Howe says:"Back in the Olden Days, before there were such things as cable televisionor DVDs, I loved staying up late at night to watch old horror movies on TV.My favorites were the ones about hollow-eyed vampires and torch-bearingpeasants, or those with mad scientists whose accents fell somewherebetween Upper Mongolia and the Bronx.Nighty-Nightmarecame out ofthe affection I still feel for those movies and the laughs -- along withthe chills -- they gave me. Chester's story of how Bunnicula traveled fromTransylvania to America is a spoof of just about every old horror movieI ever saw!"

Author Biography

James Howe is the author of more than ninety books for young readers. Bunnicula, coauthored by his late wife Deborah and published in 1979, is considered a modern classic of children’s literature. The author has written six highly popular sequels, along with the spinoff series Tales from the House of Bunnicula and Bunnicula and Friends. Among his other books are picture books such as Horace and Morris but Mostly Dolores and beginning reader series that include the Pinky and Rex and Houndsley and Catina books. He has also written for older readers. The Misfits, published in 2001, inspired the nationwide antibullying initiative No Name-Calling Week, as well as three sequels, Totally Joe, Addie on the Inside, and Also Known as Elvis. A common theme in James Howe’s books from preschool through teens is the acceptance of difference and being true to oneself. Visit him online at JamesHowe.com.

Editor's Note	p. 3
The Adventure	p. 7
Two Men and a Dawg	p. 21
Things Are Not What They Seem	p. 37
Nobody Here But Us Chickens	p. 47
Nighty-Nightmare	p. 54
Once Upon a Time in Transylvania	p. 65
A Family Forever	p. 81
Dawg Gone! (And That's Not All)	p. 93
Trail's End	p. 104
Table of Contents provided by Ingram. All Rights Reserved.

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Excerpts

When the Monroes arrived right after us, the man by the fire looked up.

"Well, howdy," he said. "You folks out camping?"

"We...we thought we'd camp over there," Mrs. Monroe said, pointing to a sandy patch near the water's edge. "That is, if you don't mind."

"Mind? Heck, no. We never do get to see people in these parts. I'm Bud. And that there is Spud."

Spud, I thought. How fitting.

The Monroes introduced themselves and us. Spud looked everybody over, turned the knife in his hands, and spat on the ground.

"Nice-looking animals you got there," Bud said, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. "Yes'm. Nice looking. Now, you take Dawg, he's seen better days. He cain't help it, he's been around by life, and sometimes he jes gets downright mean and orn'ry. But he's a good dawg, Dawg is."

"That's your dog's name?" said Mr. Monroe. "Dog?"

"Dawg," said Bud.

He flipped the fish in the frying pan. Spud spat. Dawg dragged himself to his feet and, drool and all, headed in our direction.

"He looks a little like Max," I commented, trying to cheer myself by bringing to mind a friendly bulldog of our acquaintance.

"Yeah, the way a rattler looks like a garter snake. Happy Saint George's Day," Chester said, and the hairs continued to rise all the way down my back.

"What kind of mutt do you call yourself?" Dawg growled as he came closer. His teeth were stained and pitted like old linoleum.

"Nonviolent," I said, hoping he wouldn't catch the tremor in my voice.

He snorted, sending a waft of rancid breath my way, and started to circle me, sniffing. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's this humiliating sniffing routine that passes for a handshake in the dog world. I would have suggested that he "give me five," but I was a little too nervous. Besides, I didn't have the feeling Dawg was the kind of old dog who was keen to learn new tricks. In fact, I didn't have the feeling Dawg was too keen at all.

"Watch this," he said, when he'd tired of sniffing. He sauntered over to the campfire, stopping only when he was so close that his mangy fur took on a red glow. I exchanged puzzled glances with Chester and Howie, wondering what it was we were supposed to be watching.

The Monroes, meanwhile, had moved down the slope to their campsite. Bud, who had gone back to his fish, ignored Dawg, while Spud just stared off into space, slowly turning his knife in his hands. After a moment, Dawg barked. The two men looked up and Bud started to shout, "Lookee, Spud. Hot dawg! Hot dawg!" His wild laughter made him sound like a demented goose. From the way Dawg and Spud curled their lips, I gathered that this was meant to be a big joke. Suddenly, I had the feeling I knew how prehistoric cavemen might have entertained themselves. I decided maybe television wasn't such a bad invention after all.

"Gee, Uncle Harold," Howie said, "What do you think?"

"I think Chester's right," I replied. "The woods are full of spirits tonight."

"Evil spirits?"

"Stupid spirits," I said.

Chester mumbled something, but I couldn't hear him over the sound of the can opener in the distance. Dinner was about to be served, and I wasn't going to miss it.

Excerpted from Nighty-Nightmare by James Howe
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