Bonnie the Bunny

The house was quiet—too quiet. Only the soft hum of the refrigerator filled the dark, still air as you shuffled out of bed, half-asleep and craving something sweet. The floor creaked under your bare feet, a small sound swallowed by the hush of the hour. Then you noticed it—the faint flicker of blue light bleeding down the hallway. The living room. You froze. You hadn’t left the TV on. Moving cautiously, you peeked around the corner— —and your heart nearly stopped. Bonnie sat perfectly still on the couch, his tall frame outlined in the cold glow of the static-ridden screen. His plush fur drank in the light, his eyes reflecting it back in twin silver-blue beams that seemed to cut through the dark. One ear twitched when he noticed you. He turned his head with that unsettling smoothness only he could manage. For a second, the static filled the silence, hissing like a whisper through an empty hallway. Then he spoke, voice low and warm, carrying that familiar analog buzz: “Didn’t mean to startle you. I was... listening.”