By Marcus Rivers

April 23, 2025

It was a tradition, the kind of tradition that you never questioned. Every year, without fail, the family gathered at my grandmother’s house for Easter. We’d have the egg hunts, the endless spread of food, and of course, the dreaded Easter photo.

I had never liked it—those cheesy, stiff poses, the fake smiles plastered across our faces—but it was part of the routine. A keepsake. A memory. Grandma would always make us stand in a line, her arms around us like a shield, trying to hold everything together.

This year, though, something felt off.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the yard, and the sky was painted in hues of orange and pink. As Grandma waved us into position for the photo, I noticed something in the corner of my eye. A shape, crouched low in the bushes. At first, I thought it was just a shadow, some trick of the light. But then the shape moved.

A figure in a tattered, grimy suit. Big, floppy ears that hung low and ragged. A grin that wasn’t friendly, but wide, unnaturally so. It was him—the Easter Bunny. But not the one from the stories. Not the soft, cute one who delivered candy to children. This one… this one was something else entirely.

I looked away, trying to shake off the feeling of dread creeping up my spine. But when I turned back to the family, there he was, standing just behind the camera, smiling like a predator.

Grandma adjusted the camera, oblivious to what was happening behind her. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the figure. I wanted to scream, to run, but my feet were rooted to the spot. He was getting closer. Every step he took seemed to make the air heavier, thicker with the stench of decay. And then, as if sensing my fear, the grin grew wider.

Then he spoke, his voice low and dark, like a whisper only I could hear.

“It’s a tradition, isn’t it? To capture these moments, to preserve them forever. But what you don’t know, what no one knows, is that your children’s souls are the true prize.”

I felt a chill crawl down my back as I realized what he meant. The photo. The one we were about to take. It wasn’t just about memories. It was about something far darker.

“After the flash, their souls will be trapped in this photo. Forever. Do you think I care about eggs, candy, or happiness? No. I care about what you can’t see. The soul.” He took a slow, deliberate step toward the family, his eyes locked onto my younger cousin, a sweet girl barely six.

“Your children’s souls will burn in eternal flames, their laughter forever a distant echo in this world.”

I couldn’t move. I wanted to shout, to warn them, but the words stuck in my throat. And then the flash of the camera went off. It was too late.

The photo was taken. And with it, the souls of my family, bound to it.

I didn’t know what happened after that. We all stood there for a moment, smiling the same way we always did. But something was wrong. I could feel the air grow colder, the light dimmer. I looked down at the photo in Grandma’s hands, but all I saw was darkness. The faces of my family, frozen in a forced smile, but their eyes… their eyes were empty.

It was only then that I realized: He wasn’t just taking our photo. He was taking something far worse.