The little bunny had begun to move for the first time since he had been put in his cage. He lifted his tiny nose and inhaled deeply, as if gathering sustenance from the moonlight. "He slicked his ears back close to his body, and for the first time," Chester said, "I noticed the peculiar marking on his forehead. What had seemed an ordinary black spot between his ears took on a strange v-shape, which connected with the big black patch that covered his back and each side of his neck. It looked as if he was wearing a coat . . . no, more like a cape than a coat." Through the silence had drifted the strains of a remote and exotic music. "I could have sworn it was a gypsy violin," Chester told me. "I thought perhaps a caravan was passing by, so I ran to the window." I remembered my mother telling me something about caravans when I was a puppy. But for the life of me, I couldn't remember what. "What's a caravan?" I asked, feeling a little stupid. "A caravan is a band of gypsies traveling through the forest in their wagons," Chester answered. "Ah, yes." It was coming back to me now. "Station wagons?" "No, covered wagons! The gypsies travel all through the land, setting up camps around great bonfires, doing magical tricks, and sometimes, if you cross their palms with a piece of silver, they'll tell your fortune." "You mean if I gave them a fork, they'd tell my fortune?" I asked, breathlessly. Chester looked at me with disdain. "Save your silverware," he said, "it wasn't a caravan after all." I was disappointed. "What was it?" I asked. Chester explained that when he looked out the window, he saw Professor Mickelwhite, our next door neighbor, playing the violin in his living room. He listened for a few moments to the haunting melody and sighed with relief. I've really got to stop reading these horror stories late at night, he thought, it's beginning to affect my mind. He yawned and turned to go back to his chair and get some sleep. As he turned, however, he was startled by what he saw. There in the moonlight, as the music filtered through the air, sat the bunny, his eyes intense and staring, an unearthly aura about them. "Now, this is the part you won't believe," Chester said to me, "but as I watched, his lips parted in a hideous smile, and where a rabbit's buck teeth should have been, two little pointed fangs glistened." I wasn't sure what to make of Chester's story, but the way he told it, it set my hair on end. Excerpted from A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery by Deborah Howe, James Howe All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.