Feeling the tepid rays of the early April sun flit across his face, the Easter Bunny awoke. He willed his two pale pink eyes wide open and sighed: he was exhausted beyond measure and still had so much to accomplish in so short a time. Easter was coming! The translucent whiskers jutting from his twitching round nose bobbed nervously in anticipation of what was still to be done. His anxiety level was approaching overload. With a deep breath and a final push, he scrambled out of his beloved bed, shoved his feet into his well-worn leather slippers and smoothed his orange and yellow plaid pajamas. He was ready to face the day. All in order, he scampered toward the sun-kissed kitchen to put on his pot of morning tea. What he saw there left him absolutely speechless.

Sitting on his kitchen floor, his front door wide open, was a young boy.

Probably not much older than eight, the child was disheveled and dirty. His “Ironman” pajamas were stained with mud and dust and what appeared to be strawberry jam. His straw-colored hair was in a similar state of disarray—tousled and windblown and angled in all directions.

While the Easter Bunny loved children—he adored them from the tip of his shiny black nose to the soles of his furry, snow-white feet—he was unaccustomed to their presence. Usually, he saw them only from a great distance; tucked under fuzzy quilts in warm beds, through windows and doors from afar, or from the cover of bushes and shrubs while they gathered the eggs he had left them. The fact that one of them had wandered into his own den—inconceivable!

His whiskers trembling and his paws shaking, the Easter Bunny cursed himself and his inadequate social skills. He took a hesitant step forward, and called out to the child, his voice squeaking like a badly played violin. “Yoo-hoo! Little one! Are you lost?”

A breeze blew in through the open door. It was a cool, pleasant gust that brought with it the sweet, fragrant scent of spring: rain, fresh grass, warm dirt. But there was something else that came in with the breeze. Something vile, foul, and disgusting. It was then that the Easter Bunny realized that something was horribly wrong.

There was a smell coming off the child; a nasty one that reeked of urine, sweat, and rot. It was the same odor he had detected centuries before, when one Easter, he’d wandered into the house of corpses—victims of a terrible plague.

Death. That was it. The child smelled of death.

The Easter Bunny took a short step forwards. “H-hello?” he twittered, “A-are y-you...alright?”

Upon hearing his voice, the child seemed to sway. It lolled its head to one side, then the other, and then twisted its body around. It’s movements were slow and stiff, and it seemed that eons passed before the child faced him. He felt his heart give two, rapid beats.

The child’s face was a terrifying, mutilated mess. His nose was lumpy and bent, and putrid black goo oozed from his nostrils. Long, jagged scars raced across his discolored, greyish-yellow cheeks and down a pale neck. Around the mouth, there was more of that strawberry-jam...no, it was blood. The child was covered in blood.

But the worst were the eyes. Well, technically speaking, the eye.

It was glazed over and glassy, like a doll’s eye, with no pupil or iris to be found. It was simply a squishy, mushy blob. It was unsettling, but even more so was the right eye, which was half gone.

“What are you?!”

In response, the creature opened its mouth and grinned. It was a ghastly smile; the teeth were covered in a layer of slimy, ruby-red gunk, and chunks of rancid meat poked out from between the cracks in the teeth. The Easter Bunny couldn’t help himself: he turned and hopped back to his room and slammed the door.

Behind him, he could hear the heavy, plodding footsteps as the child picked himself up off the floor and stumbled across the kitchen tiles. It was moaning now; a deep, gurgling, baritone growl.

The Easter Bunny locked his door, and threw the key to the opposite side of the room. From outside, he could hear the child scratching at the door; it’s horrible moan reverberating throughout the house.

The Easter Bunny collapsed against the far wall, shut his eyes, and brought his face down between his knees. What is this? he thought. His heart thumped loudly in his ears. Is this some sort of cruel prank played by Santa Claus?! This isn’t funny at all!! He wanted to hurl, to cry, to scream—anything to stop the moaning.

What do I do?

The thought punctuated his grief and confusion and sent reality crashing back into him. What would he do? What could he do? He didn’t even know what he was up against!

The scratching became more frenzied and hurried, and the Easter Bunny whimpered. He prayed that the creature didn’t break down his door.

I have to do something! But what?!

He lifted his head and let his eyes scan the room. He needed something; a weapon of sorts. Preferably blunt and heavy. He wasn’t looking to instigate a fight, simply defend himself.

It will be like fighting a cat, he thought. He had plenty of experience fighting them; those pesky pets were always after him. Usually—especially on Easter, when he was pumped full of adrenaline—he could outrun or outwit them. But sometimes, the pets were just a little too quick and spry for him. On those occasions, he would fight.

His eyes landed on the dresser. Perhaps...

The Easter Bunny got up, keeping one shaking paw pressed firmly against the wall. He could feel the terror bubbling up in him, and he did his best to suppress it. Stay calm.

He began to inch forwards across the room. His paws felt sweaty, his forehead hot. He could hear the anguished squeals of the not-quite-child as it thumped its body against the door. He could almost imagine it; its mutilated face; those pallid, clammy cheeks; those white, dead eyes. He shuddered, but continued on. When he reached the dresser, he was shaking. He gripped the edges of it as if it were a lifeline and he a drowning victim.

Gingerly, he reached an unsteady paw and pulled back the object he desired; a metal Easter egg.

It had been given to him by his crazy uncle one Christmas many years prior. It was one gift he was not particularly fond of. He forgot just where his eccentric relative had purchased it; perhaps off of some drunken Leprechauns. It certainly looked like it had been made by them. Lopsided and shaped more like an amoeba than an egg, the dull, grey metal had been engraved with all manner of symbols. On one side, there was a poorly drawn picture of a cross; on the other side, there was a crude smiley-face with a bit of a perverted, pedophiliac air to it.

He picked the egg up, all manner of disgust evident on his face. This would do nicely.

Egg in hand, the Easter Bunny shot a quick glance towards the door. The incessant clawing and moaning had ceased; as if the creature had grown disinterested or tired. But the Easter Bunny knew better. When he peered under the door, he could see the tell-tale signs of a cracked, blood-encrusted foot.
It's waiting, then. His whiskers twitched. Fine.
He let his eyes drift across the room; his mind searching, pleading, begging for a way out. But there was none. He knew from experience that the window was too small to fit through, and unless he could burrow through the own foundations of his house, the idea was a dud as well.
Looks like the only way out is the door
His muscles involuntarily tensed; the breath hitched in his throat. He could feel his little rabbit heart plodding along: ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump. He scanned the bedroom floor for the key, and grimaced when he found it. Sweating profusely, he sauntered up to the door and inserted the gleaming metal into the brass doorknob.
I don't exactly have the element of surprise, he thought to himself, so when I see him, I need to react as quickly as I can.
He turned the key. For a long moment, he simply paused and sat there; his hand on the knob. He could feel the fear mounting; his hair was standing up as far as it could go, and his body temperature plummeted several degrees. A minute passed, then two.
Do it.
He turned the knob and pulled the door inwards. Outside, the creature was waiting. As soon as it felt the rush of the air, it began to stagger forwards. It opened its mouth; it's horrible, chipped-and-cracked, bloodstained mouth right as the Easter Bunny brought his uncle's present down on its head.
There was a horrible glopping, sloshing, squealing, squelch; similar in tone and frequency to the sound made when one removes one's boot from a sticky pile of horse excrement. Where the metal egg had struck, the head caved in. The thing shuddered, and halted; opening and closing its horrid mouth like a dying fish.
The Easter Bunny wasted no time, and brought his egg down again. And again. And again. Each hit was followed by a strange, hissing slurp, and an icy-sharp crunching crack. Strange, globular brownish-grey chunks flew out of the creature's head, along with a sickly rust-colored liquid. It splattered everywhere, yet the Easter Bunny continued to pound on the creature with his egg until its pale, dim eyes grew paler, and its movements slowed before finally ceasing altogether. It was dead…or, at the very least, deader than it had been.
Retching, the Easter Bunny tossed his egg to the side and pulled away. Last night's stew came pouring forth from his stomach in torrents, and he was forced onto his knees. He snuck a quick glance back at the dead child; nasty chunks of brains streaming out of a broken skull, and he vomited again.
He passed out.
****
When the Easter Bunny woke up—several hours later—he was sitting comfortably back in his own bed; his fur clean and free of debris, his nerves soothed, and his body as achy as if he'd just had the flu. Bright sunlight streamed in through the open window and a fresh breezed tickled at his whiskers. It smelt fresh and clean.
After several minutes of lying listlessly under the covers, the Easter Bunny ventured out into his kitchen. He was surprised to find it as clean and spotless as the day he'd moved in.
"'Sup?" The Easter Bunny spun around.
"Phil?" There, sitting on his couch, smoking a cigar and eating a Panini was none other than Punxsutawney Phil—the iconic Groundhog from Pennsylvania. His fellow holiday critter grinned—a funny, buck-toothed one—and the Easter Bunny shuddered. That thing had grinned at him as well.
"Yo, Bunny. I was in the 'hood and figured I'd stop by—ya' know, for some food and crap. The place was a real trash-heap; blood and brains everywhere, vomit in the corner, a dead kid on the floor, so I hired some Keebler Elves to come clean up the place for you. The bill will come next week."
Phil grinned again at his acquaintance's blank look. "You do remember, don't you'?"
The Easter Bunny trembled; his voice nearly inaudible. "Of course. How could I forget?"
The plump critter shrugged. "Just making sure. Now, we need to get you ready! Easter's next week!!!!!!!!"