Red Rabbit 

Caroline McCormick

There was a body in the backyard, and Maeve was sure of it. She hadn’t seen the rancid, meaty fingers peeking up from the dirt yet or the scent of rot and sour, but she didn’t need proof of those sorts of things to know she was correct. She didn’t need to see a skull or a rib or even a femur. No, the rabbit with dog teeth was proof enough. 

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There was another round of incessant screeching before Maeve finally had enough, the little moon-shaped imprints on the belly of her palms no longer serving as a proper distraction. The walls of the nursery must have been painted with the baby’s wailing at this point, but Maeve was unable to find the resolve to soothe the insufferable infant. The baby had come so early that the young woman hadn’t had nearly enough time to prepare herself to be a mother, which was an almost valid excuse on her part. She’d had months to compose herself for this sudden role, but she still hadn’t been ready when Rosie Jean arrived. 

Rosie Jean, just a little thing swaddled in pink blankets with the tiniest tufts of brown hair, had come quickly and with a huge fuss. From the moment she clawed at her first breath of air, she was yelling and kicking and babbling. Rosie Jean was always begging for someone’s attention, which Maeve must have known was for her, though she preferred not to dwell on that thought for too long. Then again, she could have been crying for her father, who had promptly left the delivery room after the nurses began to congratulate him. Maeve preferred to dwell on that thought even less.

Another shriek from the nursery. Maeve pushed herself from the black-and-white kitchen tile, set her shoulders back, and pattered toward the backdoor. The lingering pain from within her palms would subside in time, but she feared her mind would snap if she remained in that house with that baby any longer. Her throat felt crowded with tears, but she only choked them back as she twisted the doorknob and dragged her ragged body out onto the porch. 

It had just rained, judging by the smell and the dew that still held onto each and every thin blade of grass. April was cruel that way, with its unrelenting showers and never-ending days. The yard, freshly mowed, wasn’t very big at all, and Maeve had all but forced her husband to have a garden built. He had wanted this house and this hasty marriage and the baby, too, so it seemed only fair that she’d be allowed her own demand, no matter how small it seemed. The garden wasn’t much, really—just a couple of raised, rectangular garden beds with herbs and vegetables she’d incorporate into nearly every meal she made. 

The garden was flourishing beautifully, watered by the constant, biting rain and Maeve’s desire for some sense of solace. She found she’d always sort of had something of a green thumb, but it had really never mattered until now. The young woman made her way towards the beds and checked on each and every leaf as the wet grass pushed dewdrops between the pads of her toes. There was a care to her work, if you could even call it that, that calmed her, brought her away from silly thoughts about children and husbands and senile houses that she didn’t even want in the first place. 

With furrowed brows and an ache in her stomach, Maeve spotted it. Just a bit of white, a little mass so small someone might have mistaken it for a grocery bag. She huffed and made her way towards it, determined to weed it from her garden entirely before she noticed the way it perked up as she came close. The white lump was huddled up between the leeks and cabbages, a little rabbit with eyes as red as cherries. Still, as cute as it was, she was intent on removing it from her garden at the very least, though the better part of her figured the small thing would come back anyways judging by the teeth marks on the surrounding leaves. 

The rabbit was only about the size of Maeve’s forearm, but when she moved to scoop it up, the animal snapped at her, tearing at her skin. Maeve’s arm retracted instantly, and she let a stream of curses slip before catching her tongue. Upon inspection, where a tiny, papercut-like puncture should have been was the bloody, bruised indentation of a dog bite. It was impossibly large for the little rabbit, a thick river of blood bubbling up to stain her skin. The realization left her cold for a moment before she noticed the squirming, writhing bodies of newborn bunnies, barely visible under their mother’s body. They were all pink, bundled against the warmth of their burrow and their mother’s belly. Maeve glanced down to the bite mark, then back at the rabbit. The rabbit would have a home in her garden after all.

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May arrived quickly, and the rain began to lessen. Rosie Jean still shrieked, but Maeve had learned to shriek back. If her husband heard her, he’d think her insane, but he would only arrive after the baby had been asleep for hours, so it’s not like he’d actually be around to hear her. Work, he mused. Business meetings. Conferences. Convenient. Maeve suspected he loathed taking care of Rosie Jean as much as she did, and though initially she couldn’t fault him for that course of action, she found herself growing more and more tired of it. She was the only one home for the crying thing, and Maeve could hardly recall even a passing moment she’d seen him lift a finger for Rosie Jean. 

Maeve knew it wasn’t the fairest line of reasoning and that if she were to cast blame, she, too, would be found at fault. Yet if they were discussing fairness, fairness of all things, she didn’t think it was fair of him to leave his young assistant-turned-wife alone with a baby that was the cause of their marriage in the first place. There was a creak from down the hall, a sullen reminder that the house they were living in was practically ancient. Her husband had mentioned once in passing that it had once been his mother’s house when she was full of youth and still married, but she had tuned out when he began to mention the details of his parents’ divorce and his father’s fatal cancer. All Maeve had really been able to focus on was the smell of cigarette ash and Chanel No. 5 that had started to cake up on the sides of her lungs like dull yellow wallpaper. But she had learned what that creak meant, a conditioned response. 

His feet clacked against the tile in his expensive academy shoes, and Maeve waited until she could hear him shrug off his coat to pull the risotto out of the oven. It was like a routine for the two of them, even though she knew he had no idea about their little game. There was a groan from the tile—he was in front of the nursery. She’d mastered all the secret noises of the house, their timing, too, yet the subtle squeak of the nursery door before dinner had never been one she’d had to commit to memory.

The house, an older and more Victorian structure, was meant to be a gift for the couple, but only her husband really found anything rewarding out of it. The house was a project to him—something to excavate and remodel exactly to his liking. He was doing a real piss-poor job of it, but that was never something she brought up. It was horribly obvious, with the bare walls and boxes stacked ceiling-high in their little guest room. The nursery was decorated, of course, and their bedroom, too. The kitchen was stocked completely, compliments of her hollow mother-in-law, who all but insisted that Maeve receive everything she needed to properly serve a meal. To serve my son, Maeve imagined the words would have come naturally to the cool woman, though she, of course, would never actually say them. 

“Dinner smells great." He half smiled, but his eyes were somewhere else. Down the hall, maybe, where she’d left the TV on for him. She found he was more passive this way, too busy tracking the latest tennis matches to keep his full attention on her. It always does, she affirmed to herself, grabbing two plates from the cabinet and beginning to serve dinner for the two of them. 

“Thank you.” She didn’t bother smiling back—he wouldn’t see it. There wasn’t much else to say—his days were always the same and so were hers. The hushed chatter from the tennis match kept them both wrapped up in their own little worlds as she served him his plate, setting herself in the spot across from him. His neck was still craned down the hall as he began eating. The rhythmic movement of his jaw and the slight smack he made as he chewed drew her thoughts back to the rabbit, with its bite that she was beginning to think was not all that different from her husband’s.  

Rosie Jean had gone down with a huge protest, which was a staple for the girl. The nights were about the only time Maeve would hold Rosie Jean close to her, and she preferred to keep it that way. Maeve had never wanted a daughter, and perhaps it was fate that her daughter didn’t want Maeve either. She squealed like a pig anytime Maeve touched her, and that had never helped her to overcome the blues the doctors said would fade within weeks. They hadn’t, but she would imagine they would. She wondered if Rosie Jean knew how similar the two of them were. She wondered if that’s why she made being her mother so hard. 

Her eyes scanned his form at times like these when she knew he wouldn’t catch her. He certainly wasn’t ugly by any means, with his broad shoulders and his tousled salt-and-pepper hair. Maeve knew she should feel lucky with a pick like him, but he also had a habit of chewing with his mouth open. And he whistled a little when he slept. And he enjoyed telling Maeve that he loved her, but only when he was drunk. She should’ve felt lucky, but he wasn’t perfect and neither was she. 

She hadn’t bothered to pick up her spoon before the words tumbled from her mouth. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He hummed, but his mind was clearly still held captive by the repetitive volleys, listening avidly as the ball slammed against the floor of the court. He was even handsome in the shadowed light of the kitchen, which had once lent her the idea that that meant he was a good man. 

“There’s a rabbit in my garden,” Maeve stated, unsure of exactly why she’d said it at all. She still refused to touch her food, just as he had still refused to look at her. Maeve crossed her arms over the table and leaned forward. “She’s got a couple of babies, too. Maybe we could build them a little pen so they quit tearing up my vegetables.”

He was half listening now. And that was his issue—he would never be full with her, only ever half. Maeve watched as he cleared his throat, rubbing at it senselessly before she got the message. She stood and filled a glass with water, placing it on a coaster in front of him. “A rabbit,” he chided, talking at her and not to her. “I think I would’ve noticed if there was a rabbit in the garden, Maeve.” 

“Well, there is. She’s white. Stands out pretty well with her color and all.” The risotto was cold, but she wasn’t interested in eating. 

He chuckled, and the sound echoed as the TV switched to commercials. “A white rabbit in our garden? What is this—Alice in Wonderland? What, is he gonna come hopping out with a pocket watch?” He also liked to laugh at his own jokes. Another bad habit. “There’s nothing in the garden, Maeve.” 

“There is!” She huffed and tucked a bit of hair behind her ears. With the commercials on, she now had his attention, if only for a few brief minutes. “Look, it even bit me.”

Despite being a month old, the bite hadn’t healed as she hoped it would. The wound had darkened into a deep, discolored purple, hints of yellow and brown layered just below the purple. She had initially kept a bandage on it but when it refused to heal, she decided to let it breathe a bit. Still, it didn’t heal. In fact, the actual tear was still just as fresh as the day she had gotten it in the first place. Maeve had opted to wearing short sleeves for the past month, but it didn’t at all shock her that he hadn’t noticed. 

Her husband peered down at her outstretched arm, squinting down at it the way he did when reading over his students’ essays. His face tightened as he scanned over her arm, a thin wrinkle forming just between his eyebrows. He glanced up at her cautiously, like he was handling a wounded animal. “Maybe you should get some sleep. You’ve been tired recently.”

It was her turn for her face to scrunch. She pulled her arm back, frowning and shaking her head lightly. “What are you talking about?”

He sighed and dragged a hand over his face. It was a face she’d seen him make before during lectures, but he’d never made it for her before. It was the face of a weary man. “Maeve, there’s no bite,” he claimed. “You should go lie down.”

Maeve’s untouched food looked particularly nauseating now. She pulled back and cradled her injured arm, almost protective over the gash. “What do you mean?” The young woman looked from the bite, clearly there, to her husband. “It’s right here. Are you actually being serious right now?”

Another sigh. “You’re just tired, Maeve.” 

“Tired?” she questioned. The defensiveness came naturally to her, like a kind of second nature. She rolled her eyes, coughing up a scoff. “Like you’re ever home enough to see how tired I am.” 

“Sorry?” His head snapped towards her. Maeve had never talked to him this way, and she discovered she didn’t exactly mind, although he seemed to. When she didn’t immediately apologize, he retaliated. “You know what? You’re right. Maybe if you bothered to take care of your baby for once, you might actually feel tired.”

“My baby?” Maeve sneered, pushing herself from her chair with a screech of its legs. With her voice now raised, she could hardly hear the television anymore. “You’re the one who wanted me to keep her in the first place!”

“Don’t fucking start this conversation with me!” His yell was followed by another, a much higher pitched, horribly painful cry. Maeve’s husband closed his eyes, and it was then that the vein on his forehead seemed to pulse with a life of its own. “Great, Maeve. Now she’s up. Maybe try being a good mother for once and go put her back to sleep.”

Maeve’s lip curled back. She felt animalistic, angry in a way that she’d never had cause for feeling before. “Maybe be a fucking father and do it yourself,” she hissed, glaring at him with widened eyes as a bead of sweat dripped down the side of her face.

His eyes only opened to watch her walk from the kitchen and outside of the house, screaming at her from his place at the table. He wouldn’t calm Rosie Jean, she knew that, but it didn’t feel like her problem anymore. It hadn’t for a long time. 

The garden was cold and unforgiving that night, and not even the crickets wanted to sing for her. She supposed her and her husband had done enough singing for one night. Her garden was practically torn to shreds, each and every leaf holding tiny puncture marks and leaving the plants unsalvageable. But she was on a mission—finding her rabbit. The leeks and cabbages that once shielded her from the rest of the world had been devoured, leaving the rabbit open for attack. Yet her rabbit didn’t look like she needed protecting, covered in a layer of thick, dark red juice that mirrored her eyes.

It seemed she was in the process of whatever she had been doing, and Maeve watched, completely still, as the little rabbit dragged one of her children from their burrow, wiggling under the moonlight. With one quick bite, the baby went limp, a steady, thin stream of blood watering the dirt. Maeve could vaguely make out the other once-twisting, fidgeting bodies of the rabbit’s kits. They were still now, completely silent, and Maeve watched patiently as she began to nibble at the little bodies before the nibbling turned to chewing and the chewing turned to consuming.

The silence was like a baptism. She felt warm all at once as she watched her fellow mother gnaw at the little limbs of her children. Her feet, ice cold and bright red, only served to fuel her comfort. Maeve wished she could bathe in this silence—the silence of wind and trees and crunching. The silence was a kindness she hadn’t known for a long time.

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Maeve woke and found herself huddled between the leeks and cabbages, and no matter how much she searched for her rabbit, she could no longer find her. Smart, Maeve hummed, to get away from a place like this. The house’s shadow loomed over her, but her warmth had remained from the night before. Vaguely she could hear Rosie Jean screaming from inside the house. 

It must’ve been about midday, which meant her husband was long gone. The screaming continued as Maeve gave one final attempt to search for her red rabbit. The attempt was futile—Maeve knew she was gone just as she knew Rosie Jean wouldn’t stop screaming until she went inside to calm her. 

The realization was sudden. There would be no silence until Maeve made it herself. The rabbit wasn’t gone—not really—but the noise was. 

Maeve pushed herself off the dirt of the flower bed, a layer of grime under her fingernails like she had been clawing at the soil. She should’ve been a wreck, a huge, ugly wreck, but she’d never felt better. She brushed the dirt off her knees and tucked her hair behind her ears, her appetite ravenous as she headed inside to quiet her little Rosie Jean. 

There was a body in the backyard, and Maeve would make sure of it.

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Previously published in The Piney Dark Horror Contest, 2024