The Porcelain Hare

My grandmother Lila died when I was twenty-two, not from a disease or old age, but from a fall down the stairs in her own home. It was a cruel twist of fate, a misplaced foot on a loose rug, and she was gone. We had her cremated, and her ashes went into a ceramic bunny cookie jar she’d kept on her shelf for years, a gift from her grandchildren. That jar now sat on our mantelpiece, its painted whiskers and glassy eyes watching over our living room in the small, rented house in the middle of a dusty New Mexico summer.

I lived there with my mother, Ruth, my stepfather, Carl, and my little sister, May. My own daughter, Elsie, was just two, a whirlwind of giggles and sticky fingers. That particular August afternoon was suffocatingly hot, the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer and your skin prickle. We’d spent the day in the shade of the porch, drinking lemonade, and I’d been grateful for the first hint of evening coolness. I put Elsie to bed early, her tiny body exhausted from the heat, and she drifted off to a cartoon about singing animals. I stayed until her breathing evened out, then tiptoed to the kitchen to tackle the dishes.

By ten o’clock, the house was quiet, save for the hum of the window unit struggling against the heat. I slipped into my bedroom, the floorboards groaning under my weight, and climbed onto the mattress next to Elsie. She was sprawled out, one arm flung above her head, her lips slightly parted. I kissed her forehead and closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. The humidity clung to me like a wet blanket, and my mind raced with mundane worries: the bills, Carl’s new job, the fact that my grandmother’s bunny jar seemed to be watching me from the living room. I’d always found it a little unsettling, the way its painted eyes followed you around the room, but tonight it felt different, heavier.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, my eyes snapped open in the darkness. The house was silent now, the freezer’s hum the only sound. But something was wrong. The air was thick, almost syrupy, and it smelled faintly of mothballs and rosewater, my grandmother’s scent. That was impossible; we’d cleaned the house from top to bottom after she moved in with us, and she’d never worn rosewater in life. I felt a cold sweat break out on my neck. I tried to move, but my limbs were leaden, pinned to the mattress by an invisible weight. Elsie was still asleep beside me, but her breathing had changed, now shallow and rapid, as if she was running.

Then I heard it, a soft thump from the living room, followed by the unmistakable sound of ceramic scraping against wood. The bunny jar. I forced my head to turn, and through the slit in the bedroom door, a beam of moonlight illuminated the mantel. The jar was still there, but the lid was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness showing beneath. My heart hammered against my ribs. I tried to scream, but my throat was closed, a silent knot of terror.

The scraping continued, growing louder, more insistent, as if something was trying to get out of the jar. Then, a voice, thin and reedy, like dry autumn leaves, wafted through the house. It was my grandmother’s voice, but warped, stretched too high, too slow. ‘Elsie…’ it called, the name drawn out into a ghastly song. Elsie stirred in her sleep, a small moan escaping her lips. I wanted to grab her, to shield her, but I was frozen. The voice came again, closer this time, right outside my door. ‘Come see the bunny, dear…’

Elsie sat up, her eyes still closed, a serene smile on her face. She slid off the bed, her little feet padding silently across the floorboards. I managed to unlock my jaw, a guttural ‘no’ scraping out. But she didn’t stop. She walked to the door, her small hand reaching for the knob. The moonlight caught the bunny jar in the living room, and I saw that its lid was now fully open, and a pale, wispy tendril of smoke was curling out, reaching toward the hallway like a beckoning finger.

Suddenly, a screech split the air, so loud and sharp that it shattered the window. I jolted awake, gasping, my heart pounding. I was in bed, drenched in sweat. Outside, a stray cat yowled before slinking off into the night. The room was dark, and Elsie was still asleep beside me, her breathing normal. I stumbled into the living room, flicking on the lights. The bunny jar sat on the mantel, its lid perfectly in place. But as I Approached, I saw a hairline crack running down its back, like a wound. I reached out to touch it, and the ceramic was ice cold, despite the heat of the night.

I never slept with the lights off again, not in that house. And every time I passed the mantel, I felt a chill, and I caught the faint, lingering scent of rosewater. The crack in the jar grew a little wider every day, until one morning, as I dusted it, the entire thing split in half, spilling a pile of gray ash and a tiny, bone-white rabbit’s foot onto the floor. We swept it up and threw it away, but I know what I saw that night, and I know she still waits, whispering through the cracks, for Elsie to come and play.