It was Easter midnight, and a little boy woke up to a strange sound coming from the living room downstairs. It was still dark, but Bartolomeu’s brave heart raced with excitement — Could it be the Easter Bunny? The thought sent shivers down his spine and made him leap out of bed in a flash.  

 

Barefoot, he felt the cold, aged wooden floor beneath him as he carefully opened his bedroom door — more quietly than he’d ever done before — and peeked into the hallway. He tiptoed down the stairs in complete silence, his toes touching the steps with the grace of a ballerina. He couldn’t miss his chance to see what he’d been longing for: the bunny.  

 

Holding onto the banister tightly, his small, sweaty fingers slipping slightly against the varnished wood, he made his way halfway down. Then, peering through the narrow gaps between the railing posts, he saw the impossible.  

 

A giant, humanoid rabbit — enormous, furry paws, a thick fur — white as snow covering its body like a massive overcoat. Its ears stood tall like antlers, imposing and sharp, and its eyes gleamed like rubies in the dark, fixed on something Bartolomeu couldn’t see.  

 

But when the rabbit moved further into the room, scanning every inch with agile eyes, the boy noticed it carried a bag. From it, the creature pulled out countless small eggs, each wrapped in a beautiful blue-and-white checkered fabric, with subtle pink details barely visible in the dim light. The magnificent being was carefully placing each egg in the perfect spot.  

 

Bartolomeu was utterly mesmerized. He wanted to run to it, hug it, thank it for the gifts—but he knew such creatures were shy. One wrong move, and the beautiful being would hear him and bolt into the woods behind their gated community. So he just watched, enchanted, as the rabbit continued its task.  

 

As he observed, he noticed the large footprints left behind with every step prints that, in the shadowy distance, looked like they were made of melted chocolate, trailing from the kitchen to the backyard. His eyes couldn’t tear away from the rabbit. He’d never been so happy—until something happened.  

 

The rabbit’s ears twitched in his direction.  

 

Without realizing it, Bartolomeu had started tapping his fingers against the wood, humming his mother’s favorite Easter tune.  

 

The second he noticed, he scrambled back up the stairs and hid behind the wall. He couldn’t let the bunny catch him spying — every movie said it was against the rules for kids to see magical beings. He’d definitely get in trouble.  

 

Seconds stretched into an eternity until, finally, he heard the soft footsteps of the giant rabbit moving away. Minutes later, the sound of the garden door opening and closing gently reassured him. He wanted to look again but feared the rabbit’s wrath — maybe even worse than the time his mom scolded him in front of the whole family for dumping glitter glue on his cousin’s head.  

 

He sprinted back to his room, buzzing with excitement and endless possibilities about what awaited him in the morning. He slipped through his half-open door, jumped into bed, and squirmed like a worm, too energized to stay still despite his pounding heart.  

 

But he knew he had to sleep — in just a few hours, his mom would wake him for the egg hunt. This year would be extra special because he already knew where almost all the chocolates were hidden. She’d be stunned, laugh her playful laugh, and say her famous line: "Baby Bartou, the best, absolutely sensational!"  

 

With a big grin, Bartolomeu drifted off, humming his mom’s favorite Easter song. He dreamed of chocolate waterfalls, marshmallow mountains, and tiny hopping bunnies. Despite the excitement, he fell peacefully asleep.  

 

His awakening, however, was brutal.  

 

Screams.  

 

His mother’s voice — but unlike anything he’d ever heard. A mix of terror, pain, and despair.  

 

The shrieks came from downstairs. His mind was already racing, but his body was slow to wake. The screams faded slightly as heavy footsteps thudded down the stairs.  

 

His mind was foggy, but an alarm blared inside him: "You have to help Mommy."  

 

He jolted up as adrenaline surged through him. His feet didn’t even feel the cold floor—he just ran, shoving his door open with his shoulder (which would definitely bruise later).  

 

When he reached the stairs, he didn’t hesitate. He practically flew down them, desperate to reach his mother.  

 

But as he jumped from the second-to-last step, his feet never touched the ground.  

 

Something grabbed him.  

 

Long, strong arms yanked him into the air—higher than any jump he’d ever made, faster and farther than any rabbit could. Bartolomeu panicked. His mind, still filled with bunnies, twisted them into bloodthirsty monsters with razor-sharp teeth, gripping him just as tightly as those arms.  

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to escape the nightmare—but his ears were too sharp. He heard heavy breathing, his mother’s muffled sobs mixed with the morning news on TV. The chaos of sensations kept him trapped in his terror. The beasts would devour him.  

 

Then, one sound silenced the rest.  

 

His father’s laughter.  

 

Slowly, cautiously, Bartolomeu opened his eyes—and saw his hero holding him in the air. "The greatest cop in the Western Division." The boy was so relieved he didn’t notice the hidden despair in his father’s smile — the kind of fear the man hadn’t felt in 12 years on the force.  

 

Taking a deep breath, his dad set him down gently and said:  

 

"Whoa there, champ! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

 

Dad carried him outside, laughing — but his eyes were locked onto the hallway leading to the living room, where soon, officers would be swarming in and out.  

 

"Let’s play out here, okay? Mommy cut herself on a vase while looking for eggs. It’s a mess inside. Bet there are more eggs out here!"  

 

Bartolomeu tried to argue, but his dad convinced him to let Mom tend to her "boo-boos." Soon, she’d join them for fun.  

 

With difficulty, his father kept up the playful act, silently begging for whatever needed to be done to protect his family to happen fast.  

 

When the police arrived, Amanda — Bartolomeu’s mother — let them in without a word. Covered in her husband’s whispered prayers, she sat in the only clean chair left, wrapped in a protective plastic sheet.  

Her eyes were hollow, the horror only breaking when, by some terrible accident, her gaze was dragged back to the nightmare she’d lived hours before—a torturous loop.  

 

Fluffy, delicate and dead.  

 

She’d woken up early to prepare the egg hunt for her little boy. Everything had been planned since last weekend, and for the first time in four years, her husband would be home to join. All the treats were hidden in boxes in the high kitchen cabinets — places Bartolomeu, clever as he was, couldn’t snoop.  

 

Excited, she’d hurried downstairs, stepping lightly to stay quiet.  

 

But when she reached the hallway, she froze.  

 

Blood. Guts. Mutilation. Bones. 

 

Giant rabbit footprints led from the kitchen door, spaced unnaturally far apart, trailing into the living room. Her husband hadn’t mentioned any special surprise for Bartolomeu — something that should’ve delighted her only filled her with dread.  

 

Chills. Fear. Cold sweat.  

 

She crept along the wall, approaching one of the prints.  

 

Blood. Guts. Mutilation. Bones. 

 

The stain was dry but still tacky, seeping into the floorboards like the terror seeping into her mind. Her heart pounded, her thoughts spiraling.  

 

That noise last night wasn’t your husband getting water.

 

Something or someone was in your house. 

 

Every shadow hid monsters. She felt like a hare trapped in a den of starving wolves.  

 

Amanda had to choose: follow the prints to the kitchen (and outside) or into the dark living room.  

 

She chose the living room.  

 

Crouched, petrified, she inched forward, her ribs crushing her lungs. The air reeked of iron.  

 

Then, a familiar scent — her chocolate-scented candles. Lit. Spreading their sweetness through the house.  

 

Someone 's here. 

 

She thought of running back for a knife but hesitated. If she waited, she’d be ambushed. So she ran.  

 

She’d fight to protect her son.  

 

But when she reached the living room, there was nothing to fight.  She froze in pure shock.  

 

Small bundles wrapped in blue-checkered rags, tied with tangled strands of hair, their bases soaked in blood. Stains slowly spread across the thick fabric. An "egg" rested in every corner of the room — even in places her 6'5" husband could never reach without a ladder.  

 

Trembling, she moved forward, scanning the shadows, certain that at any moment, claws would drag her into the darkness. She reached for one of the smaller bundles — perched on the sofa’s armrest — and with the last shred of courage left in her body, unwrapped it.  

 

The fabric fell open easily, as if designed to do so, revealing something:  

 

Small. Soft. Deformed.  

 

A pulpy, amorphous mass with condensed chunks and shredded, braided strands coiled around a smaller object inside.  

 

The viscous, oval blob tumbled from the sofa’s edge and splattered onto the dark floor at Amanda’s feet, splashing thick, salty droplets. Its grotesque interior spilled out:  

 

A fragment of an eye.  

 

Distinctly red. Clear iris, glossy — but lifeless.  

 

The moment the sticky droplets touched her fingers, she clamped a hand over her mouth — but it was too late. Vomit burst through her fingers, flooding the floor, nearly covering the horror that triggered it.  

 

Dizzy, she fought the urge to faint. One thought anchored her:  

 

You’re a mother. You must protect him.  

 

Gagging silently, she wiped her mouth and forced herself to keep moving, guided by the flickering candlelight that now smelled nauseatingly sweet. The rabbit’s footprints led deeper into the room.  

 

She ignored the other "eggs" of varying sizes along the way until she reached the trail’s end — behind the largest potted plant in the room, a monstera now smeared with a strange, tar-like substance mixed with dried blood.  

 

Against every instinct, terrified she’d find her little boy behind that pot, she pushed it aside.  

 

And uncovered the sadistic work of the shadowy intruder.  

 

Fluffy. Delicate. Dead.  

 

Evil.  

 

Blood. Guts. Mutilation. Bones.

The urge to vomit returned, but there was nothing left. Amanda’s silent scream echoed in her skull as she stared at the mutilated creature before her — a grotesque mockery designed to kill not just the body, but the soul of anyone who saw it.  

 

A white rabbit.  

 

Its fur, once pristine, was matted with blood, its body slashed and swollen with protruding wounds. Its delicate belly had been split open — edges crudely stitched together with strands of human hair — making it resemble an emptied gift sack.  

 

This was where the "eggs" had come from.  

 

She screamed.  

 

A scream of pure horror. A scream as if she were the one butchered. A scream for death’s proximity. A scream for her son’s safety. A scream for help.  

 

A scream because she had to.  

 

The sound tore through the house, jolting her husband—a cop who’d forever carry the guilt of failing to protect his family — into action. Bartolomeu, exhausted from his "magical" night, only stirred in bed.  

 

Bernardo sprinted downstairs, vaulting over the railing and landing directly in the living room, gun drawn, scanning for a target. Instead, he found his wife — fragile, shattered, curled in a corner like a frightened child, rocking back and forth.  

 

When he touched her, she shrieked again — a sound only those who’ve faced death understand. A scream that finally woke their son from his sugar-coated dreams.  

 

Bernardo held her, whispering:  

 

"Take this." He handed her his gun. "I’ll call backup and sweep the house. Stay alert. I love you."  

 

He grabbed his phone and dialed a colleague, reporting the scene in clipped, professional tones before hanging up and cautiously ascending the stairs he’d leapt down moments ago.  

 

Then he heard it — the quick, light footsteps of his son.  

 

Bartolomeu was running, desperate to reach his mother. Bernardo had seconds to act. He couldn’t let his boy see the hellscape inside their home — a place that should’ve been safe.  

 

Less than five minutes later, officers flooded the house (perks of being a cop in a small town), collecting evidence and checking Amanda’s condition.  

 

But Bartolomeu, bored of playing outside, slipped past the "big man" who was now just a broken wall and dashed inside. His father chased him in desperation right after.

 

Was too late.  

From my hiding burrow, I heard the boy’s screams and his mommy’s wails.  

 

I write this letter to thank you for participating in my egg hunt and to assure that I have always been here looking out for you.  

 

And rest assured, I’ll take the little boy on a special hunt next time just as he deserves. 

 

No matter where he hides.  

 

 

—The Rabbit