By Vanessa Wright

April 23, 2025

It was a cold, crisp morning when I first heard the footsteps. They were light, almost like a whisper on the wind. But the chill in the air wasn’t what froze my blood. No, that came from the voice I heard—deep, dark, and twisted, as if it came from the pits of hell itself.

“You’ve got no idea what you’ve done, do you?” it crooned, sending a shiver up my spine.

I turned, but the space behind me was empty. Still, the voice kept echoing, lingering in the corners of my mind. I’d heard of the Easter Bunny before, of course. Cute, fluffy, always carrying baskets full of chocolate eggs for kids. But this wasn’t the bunny I’d imagined.

This one… this one was something darker. More terrifying. Something that shouldn’t have existed.

As the sun began to rise, casting long shadows over the yard, I noticed the eggs. Not the usual pastel-colored ones either. These were darker, almost metallic, and scattered across the yard like remnants of a forgotten nightmare. My heart skipped. I hadn’t bought any eggs, nor had I seen anyone deliver them.

Then came that voice again, and this time, it was clear, right behind me. “First, I’ll eat your eggs.”

I froze, my blood turning to ice. I spun around, but still, nothing. Just the whisper of wind and the weight of fear pressing down on me. My eyes darted to the eggs in the grass, but none of them looked touched.

“Then, I’ll set your hair on fire, mothafucka.”

A laugh, twisted and sinister, echoed from the shadows. A cold laugh that tasted like old copper. That’s when I saw him.

The bunny. Or whatever he was now. He wasn’t cute. Far from it. His fur was matted, stained with something dark and unspeakable. His eyes? Empty. Hollow. And when he grinned at me, I saw something far worse than madness in them. I saw nothing. Nothing but a void.

“I’m crazier than Michael Myers with a set of pliers and no hockey mask,” he growled. “When you look into my eyes, there’s no soul left. I sold it to the devil for an egg, and now it’s time to pay.”

I didn’t know what to do. I should’ve run, screamed, anything. But I was paralyzed, watching as he reached into the basket he held. He pulled out a glinting, metallic egg and took a slow, deliberate bite, his teeth sinking into it like a predator devouring its prey.

And that’s when I understood. The eggs weren’t for the kids. They were for him.

For a moment, we stood in silence, but it was the kind of silence that pressed against your chest, suffocating you. The bunny didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to suffer, to feel the terror he’d lived with for who knows how long.

With that, he vanished. Just as quickly as he’d come. But the darkness stayed. I could still feel it, like a cold hand gripping my heart.

I never saw him again. But every year, around Easter, I find the eggs. Darker than before. Always close, always waiting.

And each time, I hear his voice again, echoing in my mind.