The Porcelain Rabbit

We moved into the old Hollis place in the summer of ’97, when I was eleven. The house sat at the end of a gravel lane, its porch sagging like a tired jaw, and the smell of dry rot and dust thick in the air. My folks had gotten it cheap, dirt cheap, which should’ve been my first clue. But at that age, I was more interested in the attic and the overgrown yard than in any reason for the low price.

I remember the day we arrived. The previous owners had left a few things behind: a rusty tricycle, a stack of mildewed magazines, and in the room that would become mine, a small porcelain rabbit with a chipped ear, sitting on the windowsill. Its eyes were black, glassy, and it seemed to watch me as I claimed the room, declaring it my own because my parents had told me about the girl who died there. I didn’t believe in ghosts. I was too practical, too stubborn. So I took the room, and every night, I’d put the rabbit on the nightstand, facing me, just to see if it would move. It never did.

One evening, about a week after we settled in, I asked my parents what had happened to the girl. They exchanged a look, the kind that’s heavy with secrets, and then they told me, their voices low and even, as if reciting a lesson. Her name was Lily, they said. She was nine. She’d lived in this house in 1991. That night, she was playing in her room with a yellow rubber ball, bouncing it against the wall, catching it when it shot back. She’d been doing it for about an hour when someone appeared at the window and shot her. No one knew why she was the target, or why the rest of the family was spared. Just wrong place, wrong time.

As soon as they finished, they both stood up abruptly. ‘Time for bed,’ they said in unison, and the story was over. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Lily, and I kept looking at that rabbit. I decided to say a little prayer for her, even though I didn’t believe in much. Then I blew out my candle and lay in the dark, listening to the cricket hum outside.

That’s when I heard it: a soft, rhythmic tapping. Tap, tap, tap, coming from the wall beside my bed. It was like a ball being bounced. I froze, my heart thudding. The tapping continued, steady, unhurried. I turned on my lamp, and the sound stopped. I got up, pressed my ear to the wall, but there was nothing. I went to the window, but the yard was empty, just shadows and moonlight. I convinced myself it was a tree branch, but the closest tree was on the other side of the house. I didn’t sleep much that night.

The next night, the tapping returned. It started at the same time, around eleven, and it continued for exactly an hour, I timed it. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the taps, and I noticed that the rabbit’s eyes seemed to gleam in the dark, reflecting the faint glow from the streetlight outside. I had a wild idea: I moved the rabbit to face the window, and the tapping stopped. I moved it back, and it started again. I tested this for three nights, and it was true. The tapping only happened when the rabbit’s eyes were pointed at the wall.

I told my parents, but they dismissed it as my imagination, telling me to stop playing with my food and go to sleep. They looked at each other again, that same look, and I knew they were hiding something. So I started investigating on my own. I found old newspaper clippings in the attic, yellow and brittle, about the shooting. The article said the killer was never found, but there was a detail the police never released to the public: the killer had left a single porcelain rabbit on the girl’s windowsill, as if it were a signature. The police had taken it as evidence, but somehow, a similar rabbit had been left for the next tenants.

I looked at my rabbit with new eyes. It was the same kind, but newer, maybe a replacement. That night, I confronted my parents with the clippings. They finally broke down. My father, his voice shaking, confessed: ‘We were the ones who had the rabbit made. It was a gift to the family who lived here after Lily’s death. We thought it would be a comfort, a symbol of her innocence. But we never expected it to have… anything to do with the sounds. We’re sorry, Tom. We never believed in that stuff either.’

I stared at them, my mind reeling. They knew more than they let on. But then, my mother added, ‘There’s something else. The night Lily died, she wasn’t just playing with a ball. She had a rabbit, just like that one. She loved it. The ball was just a ruse. The killer took the rabbit as a trophy. We had a replica made so the house wouldn’t feel so empty, but we never thought it would draw… her.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. I went back to my room, and the rabbit was still there, on the sill, its beady eyes staring at me. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, because if the sounds were tied to it, what would happen if I did? I decided to test something. I moved the rabbit to my parents’ room, and that night, I heard a faint, sad humming coming from my room, a lullaby I’d never heard before. But the walls were silent. I moved the rabbit back, and the tapping returned.

For weeks, I lived with the sound. It became a rhythm I learned to ignore during the day, but at night, it was a companion, a reminder of Lily. I started leaving the rabbit outside, on the porch, but the tapping grew louder, more frantic, until it sounded like pounding. I brought it back, and it calmed.

One night, I decided to talk to it. I sat on my bed, the rabbit in my lap, and I said, ‘Lily, if you’re here, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I want to know what happened.’ Silence. Then, a faint, childish whisper: ‘He took my bunny.’ I nearly jumped out of my skin. The rabbit’s eyes flickered, and I felt a cold hand touch my cheek. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I saw a girl in the corner of the room, a ghostly silhouette, her face pale, her eyes hollow. She pointed at the rabbit. ‘He took my bunny. He threw it in the yard.’

I looked outside, and there, in the overgrown grass, was a small, chipped porcelain rabbit, the same as mine, but older, dirt-caked. I realized the rabbit I had was a replica, but the original was out there, thrown away. I ran outside, ignoring the cold, and dug it up. It was warm in my hands, like it was alive. I brought it inside, and as I held it, the ghost girl smiled. She mouthed ‘Thank you’ and faded away. The rabbit in my hand felt lighter, and when I looked at the one on my window, it cracked and fell to dust.

I never heard the tapping again. I kept the original rabbit, its chipped ear, its black eyes, but now it seemed peaceful. I never told my parents, but I knew the truth: Lily’s spirit was finally at rest. And sometimes, on quiet nights, I still hear a faint tapping from the wall, but it’s slower, softer, like a heartbeat. And I know she’s just playing, safe now, with her bunny by her side. I never believed in ghosts, but now I know it’s not about believing. It’s about remembering.