The Eater Bunny

flash fiction

Every Easter, Mama set the table with ham, deviled eggs, and a baby monitor tuned to static. Said it kept the Eater Bunny calm.

Not Easter.

Eater.

He slinked in through the doggy door around midnight, tall as a man, fur like burned carpet, eyes like goat nipples. His basket reeked of vinegar and orphan breath. This year he wanted tongues. Said so in a voice like wet celery snapping. My brother offered his first.

Mama clapped.

I pissed myself. The Eater Bunny licked it up. I found an egg in my pillowcase this morning. It's ticking. I think it has teeth.