The first few nights after bringing Bunnicula upstairs, the apartment felt… different. Not bad. Just alive. Lights flickered when he blinked. The old radiators hissed like whispers after midnight. You’d wake up to find vegetables in your kitchen drawer drained pale and shriveled, even though you didn’t remember buying that many. Once, you swore you saw his reflection in the hallway mirror grin wider than his tiny mouth should allow — but when you looked down, he was just a fluffy bunny in your arms.

Then one night, a low growl echoed from the basement. The walls trembled. Something heavy scraped across concrete below. Before fear could fully settle in your chest, Bunnicula slipped from your grasp. His eyes flared red. Shadows stretched along the ceiling like claws. The growling turned into a shriek — then silence. When you finally crept downstairs, the basement was still… except for Bunnicula sitting atop an old trunk, fur perfectly smooth, blinking up at you sweetly.

The only sign anything had happened was a long scorch mark across the floor — and the faint feeling that whatever used to lurk in this building had just learned it wasn’t the scariest thing living there anymore.

what do you do