Photo Shoot with Possessed Bunnies
The Field Guide to Possessed Animals, which I bought online for $25, is less than helpful in ridding my prized rabbits of demonic possession, and they must be exorcised by 2:30 p.m. before Phillis gets here with her daughter.
“Furs! Lexi will be dressed in furs, all in white, snuggled up to your fluffy rabbits for her senior pictures,” Phillis had said, months ago, all done up in French nails and straightened hair, smelling of face cream and eau de toilette. But Phillis knows nothing about rabbits. She has no idea that things can go downhill quickly in a month. But I know. I’ve shown rabbits at plenty of county fairs. They can molt, lose weight, or simply die from rabbit hemorrhagic disease or myxomatosis. Also, they’re just hell-bent on hopping down the stairs and breaking their necks. Yet, demonic possession was something I had never expected, and it can happen quickly.
Three weeks ago, I visited the Rawlton County Fair for a rabbit clinic, to get all of the insider-tips for showing rabbits. I’d heard that the fairgrounds were haunted, but I didn’t believe it. Then I felt the temperature suddenly drop when I entered the Grand Showroom. It was a ninety-degree day, but my breath came out in wisps of fog. All of the rabbits in the place huddled together for warmth.
As the Grand Show Masters updated us on the newest fair rules and grooming techniques, the doors to the arena wouldn’t stop opening and closing on their own, shutting loudly each time, like claps of thunder. The lights above sizzled and crackled, flickering on and off. People complained to no end. Then, a purple gaseous form filled every inch of the place, followed by a rotten, foul odor. We collectively grabbed our bunnies and ran. At home, we filled out scathing evaluation forms—at least I did, especially when I discovered that my adorable bunnies were suddenly bug-eyed, with teeth protruding, foaming at the mouth—their little bunny heads twisting around on their necks, bones popping and cracking, in a 360-degree rotation. I knew exactly what this was. A terrible, demonic spirit had possessed my bunnies—all six of them—after just five minutes at the county fairgrounds.
At first, the possession was mild—just strange noises coming from the spare bedroom, which is where I keep the bunny condo, an ample space, three compartments high, with plenty of room for hay and water. But then, the door of the spare bedroom would open and close on its own, and I could hear a low-register growl, very uncharacteristic of show rabbits. It wasn’t long before grooming supplies would just shoot up into the air on their own and smack me in the face. I can’t let Phillis or Lexi see any of this.
The possession comes and goes in waves. Things are usually calm during the day, but late afternoon into the evening, it’s like a tornado of hopelessness and fury just whips the bunnies into a frenzy, and there is literally nothing I can do about it. So when the doorbell rings, and Phillis and Lexi are standing outside, holding suitcases of clothes—a photographer and all of her equipment in tow, just behind the suitcases—I do my best to spray the house with lavender air freshener, to cover the rotting corpse-feces stench of the devil.
When I open the door, Phillis goes on and on about how lovely my home is. It’s not. I haven’t had time to clean between demonic outbreaks. Before I can stop her, she tears through the house, leaving me behind. Phillis has taken charge and leads the photographer from room to room.
“Here they are! The little pookie wookies,” I hear Phillis squeal when she reaches the second floor and enters the spare bedroom. I hear her unlatching the bunny condo cage, so I run upstairs, hoping they still look normal enough for a senior year photo shoot.
It’s now 3 p.m. We’re on the edge of disaster, but if I can hurry things up, maybe we’ll finish before the terror begins.
“I do have some important business to attend to in an hour,” I say, trying to appeal to Phillis’s sense of busy-ness. She likes to be busy. But Phillis ignores me as she cuddles the rabbits, which are looking ominously adorable.
There are about twenty-five outfit changes and several poses for Lexi and the bunnies: lounging, standing, leaning against the wall, kneeling—and mother-daughter-bunny poses.
At 4:30, the stench wells up—the first sign of impending doom. I can tell that Phillis senses it also, but she’s too polite to say anything, so she opens the window for “more light.”
Now, the rabbits are twitching—just their heads, jerking left-right-left, which Phillis finds charming—at first—until she notices their eyes bugging out.
“Are they okay?” she asks.
“They should rest now,” I say.
“But we need one more photo. I have this Dr. Zhivago fur hat—the kind that the main actress wore in the snowy scenes—and it’s all in white, like the bunnies. I’m just going to place it on Lexi’s head, along with one fluffy rabbit. … and ... Would you look at that? Brilliant!”
The rabbit that Phillis has selected is the fluffiest, and it hasn’t started twitching or bugging out yet, so I have to admit, it works. The photographer positions the light and moves in to take photos when the rabbit suddenly spasms.
“Mom! It’s digging its claws right into my scalp. Get it off!”
“No—we almost have the shot—just hold on a little longer.”
But something’s wrong with the photographer’s camera, so she takes it off the stand to inspect it, and the rabbit on Lexi’s head lets loose—spewing neon green vomit everywhere. In fact, all of the rabbits in the room puke up buckets of green vomit, moaning and groaning in a low-pitched, grunting sound that gradually forms words: “Die, bitch! Die!”
By this time, the photographer has flung herself out the window. She lands hard, but she’s able to get up and run to her car. Phillis and Lexi are screaming and crying, but the bunnies have calmed down a bit. In fact, they’ve stopped moaning, and they look more like prize winners now. Phillis breathes a sigh of relief, but when I look at Lexi, I sense something has changed in her. Her face has elongated, and she’s beginning to laugh in a low register, her eyes big and red—and I know exactly what’s happened.
There’s been a transference, and Phillis’s stunned expression tells me she understands what’s happened as well—and feels betrayed by her friend with the rabbits. So, I lead her—and Lexi—out the door, all of us wiping chunks of green vomit from our faces, and I hand her my copy of The Field Guide to Possessed Animals, and tell her I wish there was more I could do.
