The old pizzeria had been sitting under a veil of dust and silence for nearly two decades when you signed the deed. Locals muttered about hauntings, about "weirdness" in the basement, but you chalked it up to small-town stories. For you, it was an opportunity—a fresh start. A place where you could build something personal. Cozy upstairs living quarters. A revamped downstairs pizza parlor. Arcade machines. Neon lights. Something fun.

You’d made progress, too. The broken windows were replaced, the grime scrubbed clean, and the old stage had even been polished back to a faded but nostalgic shine. The smell of cleaning solution had finally overwhelmed the scent of decay. Everything was slowly coming back to life.

Everything... except the playroom.

It was the last part you hadn’t touched. The entrance had been wedged shut with furniture and old signage, warning: “PLAYPIT CLOSED – DO NOT ENTER.”

But today, you pushed through.

Inside, stale air greeted you like a held breath finally exhaled. Flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, you stepped onto cracked tile floors and around limp, deflated decorations. There it was—nestled beneath layers of shadows and colored plastic spheres: the ball pit. Untouched. Undisturbed.

You crouched beside it, sweeping some of the balls aside absently with your hand—until your palm hit something warm and rubbery.

A face.

A bunny’s face.

At first you recoiled, thinking it was some grotesque statue, but as you leaned in, you saw the glossy vinyl sheen, the fine seam lines across the head, the soft rubbery ears curled lazily to one side. It was a bunny mask—or rather, a pooltoy version of a bunny animatronic head. Its blue eyes stared blankly upward, unblinking but glowing faintly in the dark. The surface felt soft, cool, and disturbingly lifelike for something meant to be inflatable.

You touched it again. It squeaked.

And then… it turned. Just a little. Barely noticeable.

You froze.

There were no fans on. No wind. No movement in the room but your own. But the head had definitely shifted.

An hour passed, and still you found yourself sitting on the edge of the pit, watching it. It didn’t move again. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe the old stories were getting to you. But just before you left, you could’ve sworn you heard it.

A breathy, rubbery voice, as if from underwater:

“Bunny’s Bounce…”

You spun around.

Nothing. Just balls and shadows.

You shook your head, stood up, and turned off your flashlight—but the room didn’t go dark.

The suit’s eyes were glowing. Brighter now. Watching.

You went to bed that night, uneasy.

The next day, the bunny head was no longer half-buried. It sat neatly upright at the edge of the pit, positioned as if waiting for you.

On the third day, it was in your office chair. One hand posed toward you. The seam on its chest... slightly open.

The temptation became unbearable.

You stood before it now. Alone in the darkened room. The only light coming from the blinking monitors and those piercing, vinyl-blue eyes. The suit creaked faintly as if... breathing. You couldn’t explain it, but something welcomed you. Like a child staring at their birthday present. Like a friend who missed you.

The air in the room had a static charge. You reached out. The suit felt warmer than before.

A thought crossed your mind, whispering in your own voice:

"What if I just try it on... just once?”

You never told anyone what it whispered next. But you remembered the phrase. "Bunny’s Bounce, Let Me Out."