Nighty-Nightmare

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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.

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