This story was inspired by a string of sightings in Virginia during the 1970's. The legend described a man in a rabbit costume wielding an axe, attacking those who enter the forest. Some say it was a man in costume, others say a ghost who comes back to the place of his death once a year on Halloween. Motives, weapons, torture methods, and victims are wildly up for debate.

1972, Fairfax County, Virginia

Ma and Pa got us a snow white rabbit with beady red eyes last summer. Carol and Johnny, both same height, same hair, same tone, were the most excited about the prancing vertebrate. Every night it would scurry across the hard-wood floor, scrapping the surface. Every tick of the chimes made it freak out. I hated that thing. Which is why this autumn I got rid of it.

When the twins were sleeping and my parents were out, I stole their spare pickup trucks keys from the bedside table, and went out to enact a plan. The poor bunny had "broken the bolted closed cat door, made its way to the road," and the rest would be history.

That afternoon the house was in mourn. Ma was holding onto Carol, hushing her with condolences for her lost pet. And Pa, his hand on my shoulder, grieving his own sorrow about the loss of that money he had spent on the rabbit. But Johnny. Johnny didn't seem upset. He was sitting in the living room, his eyes pointing downwards to the floor, with as blank of an expression as an 8 year old could make.

The next day, Ma asked me to come outside. Moths settled around us as the porch light flickered. "Michael..."

"Yeah, Ma?"

"Did you have anything to do with Mr. Snuffles?"

I looked at her unsure of what to say. "Why do you ask?"

That day, the twins had gone to take a nap. But Johnny couldn't seem to fall asleep. He loved to stare out the second story window at the fire station across the hill. Johnny told Ma I killed it.

Pa couldn't look me fully in the eyes after that night, but no one spoke about it. Carol was blissfully unaware of the news, and planned to bury the carcass out in the woods.

The night of the burial, Ma told the twins to go do it quick, as the sun would be setting early tonight. They made there way out of the house, past the white picket fence, and down the road. As did I moments later. But not before making a detour into my fathers shed.

It was dark and my body was cold. I walked down dirty paths, my feet scuffling the leaves blocking my path. I saw them. Focused on their makeshift funeral they didn't hear the sound of the axe scrapping and hitching against the worn down railroad tracks.

"And here lies Mr. Snuggles."



"It was Mr. Snuffles! And I wanna bury him over next to that tree."

"But we should bury him here! Next to the tunnel so we alwaaays know where he is."

The sound of the axe echoed through the tunnel, bouncing off the walls until it was impossible for the children to not here it. They turned in shock towards the noise, dead rabbit in hand, frozen.

"Mr--"

The police arrived on scene, little girl grasping on to her limp brother. The cops took her in, wrapped in a safety blanket, shaking-- they asked her what she saw.

"It was a bunny! A big bunny man!" She screeched.

Miles back at home, in the back seat of our familys worn down truck, was a bunny costume, splattered in blood.

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I don't write scary stuff so this is gonna have to do... sorry LMAO