The Hollow Rabbit

I’m not sure why I’m writing this. Maybe because if I don’t, the silence in this house will swallow me whole. My name is Daniel, I’m thirty-four, and I live in a two-story farmhouse that’s been in my wife’s family for generations. We moved here six months ago, after my wife inherited it from her great-aunt. The house is old, with creaking floors and drafty windows, but we thought it would be perfect for raising our daughter, Lily, who just turned two.

For the first month, everything was fine. Then the noises started. At first, it was just the sound of footsteps in the attic—slow, deliberate, as if someone was walking from one end of the house to the other. When I went up to check, there was nothing but dust and old furniture. I told myself it was the house settling. But then the footsteps started coming down the stairs. I’d be in the living room, reading, and I’d hear them—thump, thump, thump—stopping right at the landing. But when I looked, there was no one there.

I didn’t tell my wife, Sarah. She’s always been a bit anxious, and I didn’t want to scare her. I figured it was just my imagination, or maybe some animal that got in. But then the conversations began. I’d be in the kitchen, and I’d hear two voices—a man and a woman—talking in low, urgent tones, just on the edge of my hearing. I couldn’t make out the words, but they sounded like they were arguing. When I moved closer, they stopped. It happened so often that I started to wonder if I was losing my mind.

Then there was the baby monitor. We had one of those video monitors, and I’d often check it while Lily napped. One afternoon, I saw her sleeping peacefully in her crib. But then I heard laughter—children’s laughter—coming through the monitor. It wasn’t Lily’s laugh; it was higher, more mischievous. I went to her room, but she was still asleep. The laughter continued even after I entered the room, coming from the monitor’s speaker. I picked up the monitor and shook it, but the laughter only stopped when I said, ‘Who’s there?’

I started to notice other things. In the hallway, there was a small oil painting of a rabbit in a garden. It had been there when we moved in, and I never paid it much attention. But one day, I noticed the rabbit’s eyes were different. They seemed to follow me as I walked past. I tried to ignore it, but every time I passed that painting, I felt like the rabbit was watching me. Sometimes, I’d see a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye, and when I looked, the rabbit was in a different pose.

One night, Sarah woke up screaming. She said she felt something crawling on her back, something cold and wet and many-legged. I turned on the lamp, but there was nothing. She was shaking, and she said, ‘There was something in the bed with us, Daniel. I felt it.’ I held her, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, listening to the house settle, but all I could hear was my own heart pounding.

The next day, I decided to investigate the attic. I found an old trunk filled with clothes and photographs. There was a picture of a woman in a white dress, standing in front of this house, with a man beside her. They both had solemn expressions. On the back, it said, ‘Amelia and George, 1922.’ I also found a child’s toy—a stuffed rabbit, worn and faded, with one button eye missing. I took it downstairs and showed it to Sarah. She didn’t like it. ‘Throw it away,’ she said. ‘It feels evil.’ I put it in the trash, but the next morning, it was back on the kitchen table, sitting upright.

That evening, I heard the voices again, but this time they were clearer. They were coming from Lily’s room. I crept to the door and listened. A woman’s voice said, ‘He doesn’t see us, George.’ A man replied, ‘He will, Amelia. He will.’ I burst into the room, but Lily was playing with her blocks, and the room was silent. I looked at Lily and asked, ‘Who were you talking to, sweetie?’ She looked up and smiled. ‘The rabbit,’ she said. ‘The rabbit talks to me.’

I checked Lily’s room for the stuffed rabbit, but it wasn’t there. I searched everywhere, but it was gone. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the living room, the lights on, trying to read. But I kept hearing soft footsteps, and then a child’s whisper: ‘Daddy, come play.’ I looked up, and there, at the end of the hallway, stood a small figure—a child, but not Lily. It was a boy, pale, with dark eyes. He was holding the rabbit. ‘Come play,’ he said again. ‘We’ve been waiting.’

I ran to the hallway, but the boy was gone. The hallway was empty. I went to Sarah and Lily’s room, but they were both fast asleep. I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I called a friend from the historical society. I asked about the house. He told me that a couple, Amelia and George, had lived there in the 1920s, and they had a young son named Albert. Albert drowned in the pond out back. The family moved away soon after. But I’d never seen a pond. There was a dry, muddy area in the backyard, but I hadn’t thought much of it.

I decided to dig in that muddy spot. I found a child’s bone, and then another, and another. I called the police, but by the time they arrived, the bones had crumbled to dust. They found nothing. When I went back to the house, the oil painting of the rabbit was gone. In its place was a portrait of a woman, a man, and a boy. The boy was holding a rabbit. They were all smiling.

I’m writing this now from the porch, as the sun goes down. Behind me, I can hear Lily in her room, talking to someone. She’s laughing. I know if I look in the monitor, I’ll see her talking to the empty air. But I’m too afraid to look in. I don’t know what to do. I can’ tell Sarah. She’d think I’m insane. But I know now that this house isn’t haunted. It’s something worse. It’s a place where the dead don’t move on, and they’re waiting for us. And they want something. They want something from us.