In Which Our Author Talks About His Irrational Fear

Okay, so this post is an easy one, because it involves one of my favorite stories ever. See, I have an irrational fear of rabbits. I mean, it may not be fair to call it a fear. It's not like I can't be in the same room as a bunny. They just unsettle me. They make me nervous and on edge. I hate them, but I do have a couple of good reasons. First, I distinctly remember my dad telling me about how they might look cute, but they had teeth and claws and would hurt me if I grabbed them. Then I read Watership Down.

That led to a memorable dream where I was walking down a path through the woods, and there was a cute brown bunny sitting by a tree. As I got close, the rabbit grew to giant size, leapt on me, and started nibbling my face off.

That's when I woke up (in a sweat I don't mind telling you). But that's not the story. Not the real story.

The real story starts sometime in early March, at least a couple of weeks before Easter if memory serves. I was home alone at 10 o'clock at night with my dog Jake, and the doorbell rang. I answered it, and staring through the screen door was a dead-eyed, soulless rabbit face. In a high-pitched voice, it said, "I'm the Easter Bunny!"

I was immediately drenched in a cold sweat. Jake started whining. I cautiously asked, "Do I know you?"
It answered, without hesitation and with unchanging emotion, "I'm the Easter Bunny!"
"Right, but do I know you?"
Then, cheerfully monotone, as if unaware of the terror its next words would strike into my heart, it asked, "Are you Joey or Mikey?"
At this point every PSA from my childhood was screaming at me to close the door, but I mustered up the courage to ask again, as sternly as possible, "Who are you?"
The same unhesitating answer: "I'm the Easter Bunny! I have a basket of gifts for you and your family... Open the door."
Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit. Okay. I can do this. Jake's a big dog. If nothing else, he can distract the creature enough for me to grab a knife or something. So I opened the door, fully expecting to see a basket of severed limbs and viscera. Instead it handed me some stuffed animals, Great Illustrated Classics, a blanket, and some candy.  Naturally I left the candy unopened until my brother got home. When he didn't die after a day, I figured it was safe to dig in. The worst part of the story? I figured my parents would know which of their friends was dressing up as an unholy horror, but to this day, I have no idea what grim spirit visited me that night.

I hate rabbits. Hate them.