The Bleached Hare

My name is Eleanor, and for as long as I can remember, the world has never felt quite solid. I grew up in the late ’80s in a dusty little town called Granite Falls, nestled against the foothills of the Cascade Range. Our house was a creaking Victorian relic, painted a faded mustard yellow, with a wrap-around porch that groaned underfoot. My parents, devout members of the local evangelical church, were strict in their faith. My mother, a pragmatist, dismissed any talk of the unseen as childish fancy. My father, a quiet man with a deep-set fear of the demonic, saw the devil’s hand in every creak and sigh of the old house. They never spoke of ghosts or spirits, and I, a six-year-old, knew nothing of such things. So when I first saw the pale shape, I thought it was a rabbit that had gotten loose from somewhere, maybe a neighbor’s pet.

It happened in the hallway outside my room. I was playing with my plastic dinosaurs, lining them up for a battle, when a blur of white darted past the door frame. It was about the size of a small dog, but it moved with a fluid, hopping motion, like a hare. I froze, my heart thumping in my chest. I leaned out, but the hallway was empty. I called for my cat, Marmalade, but she was sprawled on the windowsill in the living room. I told my mother, who smiled and said, ‘Maybe it was a sunbeam, sweetheart.’ I wanted to believe her, but I knew what I saw. So I decided it was a ghost rabbit, and I named it Flopsy. I imagined it was a pet that had died and come back to visit me.

Over the next few months, I saw the pale hare more often. It would appear at the edge of my vision, always darting away. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of its long ears, or the quiver of its nose, but never its eyes. It never made a sound, not even the patter of paws on the wooden floor. My parents noticed my distraction. My father grew concerned, and one evening, after dinner, he knelt beside me. ‘Eleanor, you’ve been quiet lately. Are you seeing things?’ I didn’t know how to answer. I shrugged. He sighed and said, ‘If you ever see anything, you come to me. We’ll pray together.’ I nodded, but I didn’t want to pray for Flopsy to go away. It was the only friend I had in that lonely house.

As the months passed, the hare became bolder. It would stay in my peripheral vision longer, sometimes for a full minute, watching me from the corner of my eye. I started to feel a chill whenever it appeared, a cold that seeped into my bones. And then, one afternoon, I saw it clearly for the first time. I was sitting on the floor of my room, reading a picture book, when I felt a presence. I looked up, and there it was: a white hare, but not like any hare I’d seen. It was translucent, like a heat haze, and its fur seemed to shimmer with a sickly pallor. Its eyes were not the red of an albino, but a deep, empty black. It stood on its hind legs, staring at me with an unnerving stillness. Then, it turned and hopped towards the wall, and vanished into it.

I screamed. My mother rushed in, her face pale. ‘What is it?’ I couldn’t speak. I just pointed at the wall. She looked, saw nothing, and hugged me tight. That night, I had a fever dream. I was in a moonlit meadow, and a hare was leading me towards a thicket of brambles. It paused, looked back, and its black eyes bored into mine. In a voice that was not a voice, I heard it say, ‘You see me. You must follow.’ I woke up drenched in sweat.

My father, alarmed by my fever, called the pastor over. They spent an hour in my room, praying over me, splashing holy water on the walls. The pastor said it was a demonic presence, that I was being tempted. My father’s face was stone. After they left, I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. I saw the hare again, sitting at the foot of my bed, its black eyes fixed on me. It seemed to smile, if a hare could smile. And I knew, with a child’s certainty, that it wasn’t a demon. It was something older, something that had been waiting for me.

Over the next year, the hare appeared almost daily. I grew accustomed to its presence, even comforted by it, in a strange way. I would talk to it, telling it about my day, about the bullies at school, about how lonely I was. It would sit and listen, its head tilted, and then it would vanish. My parents grew increasingly worried. They took me to doctors, who found nothing wrong. They brought in a priest from the city, who performed an exorcism. But the hare remained.

One night, when I was nine, the hare appeared in the middle of the night. It was standing on my chest, its weight pressing down, its black eyes close to mine. I could feel its breath, cold and musty, like an old grave. It spoke to me, not in words, but in images. I saw a small white hare, much like me, running through the woods. I saw it being chased by hunters, its leg caught in a trap. I saw it bleeding, its white fur stained red. And then I saw it die, its black eyes staring up at the sky. And I understood. The hare was a spirit, trapped between worlds, drawn to me because I could see it. But it wasn’t a ghost. It was a memory, a fragment of something that had been lost.

The vision faded, and the hare was gone. But in the morning, I found a small white tuft of fur on my pillow. I kept it in a little tin box, hidden under my bed. I never told my parents about the vision, nor about the fur. But I knew I had a purpose. I had to help the hare find its way home.

I began to research, in the school library and in old books in the attic. I learned about the legend of the ‘Pale Hare’, a creature that appears to those who are sensitive to the spirit world. It was said that it was a guide, leading the living to the land of the dead. But I didn’t want to die. I wanted to help the hare move on.

When I was twelve, we moved away from Granite Falls, to a city in the Midwest. The hare followed me. I would see it out of the corner of my eye, in the new house, in the schoolyard, even in my dreams. But it no longer frightened me. I would smile at it, and it would hop a little closer.

One evening, alone in my room, I took out the tin box and opened it. The tuft of fur was still there, but now it glowed with a faint light. As I held it, the room grew cold. The hare materialized before me, fully formed, its black eyes no longer empty but filled with a deep sorrow. It spoke to me, in a clear voice that sounded like wind through dried leaves: ‘You have carried me long enough. It is time.’

I understood. I placed the fur on my palm, and the hare touched it with its nose. The fur dissolved into a wisp of smoke, which the hare inhaled. Then, with a final look at me, the hare bounded towards the door, which was now a shimmering portal of light. It paused, turned back, and gave a little nod. Then it leaped through, and the portal closed.

The room was warm again. I looked at my palm, and in the center was a small, white scar, shaped like a hare’s foot. I knew it was a mark of gratitude. I never saw the hare again, but I often felt a presence, a gentle warmth, especially when I was alone. I had helped a lost soul find peace, and in doing so, I had connected to a world beyond my own.

Now, thirty years later, I still live with the memories of that time. I have seen other apparitions, but none as profound as the hare. And I have come to believe that the paranormal is not always malevolent. Sometimes, it is just a cry for help, a soul in need of release. And we, the sensitive ones, are the guides.

I still live in that old Victorian house, now painted white. I keep a small garden, and sometimes, at twilight, I see a white flash among the flowers. It darts away before I can be sure. But I know it is him, checking on me. And I smile, and whisper, ‘Hello, Flopsy.’