Chapter 2: The Tale of Jackrabbit

Brazilian Empire — 1660 — The Witch’s Lair

The boy woke with a scream caught in his throat, his heart pounding like the wings of a trapped bird. The nightmare still clung to him, its claws sunk deep into his mind. He saw the crows—hundreds of them, black wings slicing the air like blades, their red eyes glinting with hunger. In the dream, he ran through an endless forest, branches tearing at his skin, the soft mossy ground turning to sticky mud that pulled him down. The crows came, first one, then ten, then a storm of feathers and beaks. He stumbled, fell, and one dove, its beak sharp as a dagger. The bird tore out his eye—not the one already missing, but the other, the good one, the one that still saw the world. The pain was white fire, and blood ran hot down his face as the caws echoed, a chorus of cruel laughter.

He blinked, gasping, and the darkness of the cabin enveloped him. The nightmare faded, but a phantom pain throbbed in his empty socket, where the moon-shaped scar still marked his skin. The silence of the night was heavy, broken only by the soft snoring of the witch, sleeping on her bed of soft straw across the cabin. Moonlight streamed through the holes that served as windows, painting the dirt floor with silver stripes. He sat up slowly, the rough blanket scraping against his skin. His eye scanned the den, alert to every shadow.

The witch lay on her side, white hair splayed like cobwebs over the makeshift pillow. Her tattered purple dress rode up to her thighs, revealing thick, dark legs. She seemed smaller in sleep, less terrifying, but the boy knew it was an illusion. Even asleep, she was a weight, a presence that stifled the air around her.

He slipped out of bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. Each step was calculated, avoiding creaky boards and roots that rose from the earth like bony fingers. His heart raced, not from fear, but from something more dangerous: desire. He knew exactly what he wanted and where to look.

Waking in the middle of the night had rekindled a flame he’d tried to extinguish for years, since the first time he saw the cover of that book, 'The Tale of Jackrabbit'. The book the witch kept hidden from his curious eyes, yet it called to him like a voice in the dark. He’d tried to take it before, sneaking through the cabin’s shadows while she was out gathering herbs, but he’d never found its hiding place. Now, something in the nightmare—the crows—drove him. He wanted to know what she was hiding.

He moved like a shadow, his thin frame slipping between crooked shelves filled with jars and bones. The scent of lavender and night-rot filled the air, mingled with the sweet steam rising from the dormant cauldron. He passed the fireplace, where embers still glowed, casting a faint red light on the vine-and-bone walls. His fingers brushed a table’s surface, feeling the rough texture of a loose floorboard. He froze. Something was different.

Kneeling, his nails scraped the board’s edge. It gave way with a faint creak, and he winced, imagining it would wake the witch.

“Shit... she’ll kill me now...” he thought.

He glanced over, and she was still lying on her back—it’d be impossible for her to sleep on her stomach with breasts that size.

Back to the board, he found a hollow space beneath. His heart raced. There, wrapped in a mold-stained black cloth, was the book. 'The Tale of Jackrabbit'. The cracked leather cover seemed to pulse under the dim light, the embossed letters glowing as if alive. He hesitated, his hand hovering over it. The witch’s voice echoed in his mind: “Knowledge is a garden of snakes, my love.” But curiosity was a hunger stronger than fear.

He took the book, its weight surprisingly light in his hands. The cloth fell away, revealing a drawing on the cover—a rabbit, but not like any he’d ever seen. It was tall, dressed in fancy, old-fashioned clothes. Its ears were too long, its eyes large and yellow, its mouth comically wide and full of small, sharp teeth. It was the creature he sometimes glimpsed in the forest, crouching among the trees, watching him with a gaze that seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

With trembling hands, he opened the book. The pages were rough, smelling of mold, unopened for years, perhaps. The words were written in an elegant, almost feverish script, with drawings in the margins: rabbits with fangs, crows with human eyes, trees with faces twisted in silent screams. He began to read, the witch’s voice still echoing in his head, now drowned by the pulse of his own blood.

“Once upon a time, before the empire’s sun died, there was a boy who didn’t listen to his parents.

His mother warned him—‘Don’t go beyond the forest, son, for the forest is hungry, and the night is long.’ But the boy was curious, and curiosity is a slippery thing. Slip just a little, and it takes you where you never imagined.

So, one night, when the sun shone for the last time at the top of our kingdom’s sky, the boy ran beyond his city, running past the forest, deeper than anyone had gone. The trees grew taller, and the shadows loomed menacingly over his head.

Then—the boy heard.

A soft tap-tap on hollow wood.

The boy froze, looking back.

There, among the trees, a figure too tall to be a man, too elegant to be a beast.

Jackrabbit.

Oh, what a sight! His long legs, clad in striped silk trousers, ended in polished shoes with buckles that gleamed like stolen stars. His coat, worn at the cuffs but still fine, was the color of dried violets. And his face—oh, his face—was not a face but a smooth wooden mask, its rabbit smile forever frozen in a cheerful grin.

‘Well, well~’ chirped the Rabbit, tilting his head. ‘What a delicious morsel has stumbled into my forest!’

The boy’s heart pounded like the drums of the once-living kingdom.

The Rabbit turned slowly toward the boy, showing off his long legs as he approached, hips swaying lazily, gloved fingers fluttering in a shushing gesture at his mouth—or rather, his wooden mask. ‘You’re far from home, little toy. Does Mommy know you’re here?’

The boy didn’t answer. His feet itched to run.

‘No matter!’ sang Jackrabbit. ‘I love a visitor! Especially one so lovely and pure as you! Come, come~ I have so many wonderful things to show you.’ He leaned in, his mask gleaming. ‘Games, sweets, and secrets... Do you like those, little toy?~’

The boy took a step back.

Jackrabbit’s laugh was low and malicious, like a broken music box. ‘Oh, don’t be shy, sweet thing! All the best children visit me eventually.~’ He reached into his trousers, stroking something deep inside... then suddenly pulled out a watch, its gears exposed, hands dancing wildly. ‘Look how late it’s getting! Mommy will be so worried. Shall I take you home?’

The boy knew, deep in his soul, that Jackrabbit didn’t mean his home.

So he ran.

Behind him, Jackrabbit’s voice trilled through the trees—‘Run, run, little toy! But remember—I love a child who runs!~’”

The rest of the page was faded, the story unreadable, leaving only a single curved illustration: Jackrabbit, standing at the treeline, waving.

A creak came from across the cabin. The boy froze, the book nearly slipping from his hands. The witch stirred in her bed, a low moan escaping her lips. He closed the book carefully, heart in his throat, and slid it back into its hiding place, replacing the board. Each movement was slow, as if erasing his existence, as he crept back to bed, body tense, waiting for a scream that never came.

Lying down, his eye fixed on the mossy ceiling, where shadows danced like specters in the faint morning light. The nightmare’s echo mingled with the book’s words, Jackrabbit, a name that seemed to pulse in the air. He couldn’t close his eye and sleep. The cabin, once a refuge, now felt like a cage, its vine-and-bone walls closing in. The witch’s slow, rhythmic breathing was a constant reminder of her vigilance, even in sleep. He needed to get out. He needed to feel the forest air, to leave the cabin’s weight behind and feel alive.

Silently, he rose again, bare feet avoiding the treacherous boards. He passed the glowing jars, the cauldron still exhaling sweet, poisonous steam, and reached one of the window holes. The forest outside was alive, trees swaying in the wind, signaling morning.

He grabbed his wooden sword, hidden under a pile of rags near the door. He’d carved it months ago from an oak branch, sanded smooth, its tip sharpened with his small knife. It wasn’t a real weapon, but in his hands, it felt like an extension of his will, a talisman against the shadows. With a final glance at the sleeping witch, he opened the door, its creak muffled by the howling wind. The cold forest air enveloped him, smelling of damp earth and sweet rot. He ran, a towel tied around his neck like a heroic cape.

At twelve, the boy was lean and agile, shaped by the forest’s treacherous trails. His bare feet knew every root, every stone, every slick patch of moss. He ran with the wooden sword in hand, purple hair fluttering, yellow eye gleaming in the dim light. The forest was both ally and enemy, a labyrinth of shadows and whispers he navigated like a storybook adventurer he’d never read. He spent hours like this, free, far from the witch’s suffocating weight. He climbed trees, slashed the air with his sword, imagining battles with wolves or even humans. He was the king of a realm that existed only in his mind.

That day, he ran farther than ever. The trees seemed taller, the branches denser, as if hiding him from the dead sky. The sun, a gray, lifeless eye, barely pierced the canopy. He leaped over streams, climbed lichen-covered rocks, laughing softly to himself, the sound swallowed by the forest. Hours passed, time dissolving in the eternal gloom. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to go deeper, farther, as if something called him.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

Then the canopy opened. He stopped, panting, chest burning. For the first time, he saw the forest’s other side. The ground sloped gently, revealing a vast clearing covered in tall, greenish grass swaying in the wind. Moonlight bathed everything in a sickly glow, and in the center of the clearing, he saw it.

Jackrabbit.

The creature was stranger than the book described. At least two meters tall, its legs were long and thin, as if defying bone. It wore a tattered purple coat, sleeves frayed at the cuffs, and striped trousers that shimmered as if wet. The wooden mask, smooth and polished, bore a wide smile full of small, sharp teeth, frozen in malicious joy. Its eyes—large, yellow, like the boy’s—glowed with a light not from the moon. It constantly stroked something inside its trousers.

Around Jackrabbit, a group of children followed. Five or six, thin, in ragged clothes, faces dirty. Their eyes were glazed, as if hypnotized, moving silently, almost floating, their feet barely touching the ground. Some held sticks, others ropes, as if playing a game the boy didn’t understand. The scene was wrong, deeply wrong. The creature’s malice could be felt from meters away.

The boy gripped his wooden sword, heart racing. He knew he should run, but his feet drew him forward, pulled by an inexplicable force. Jackrabbit tilted its head, the mask gleaming in the faint light of the dead sun.

“Well, well~” it sang, its voice high and melodic, like a broken song. “What a lovely morsel has stumbled into my clearing!” It pulled its hand from its trousers. “So late, so lost, so precious. Does Mommy know you’re here, little toy?~”

The boy swallowed hard, the sword trembling in his hand. “I... I don’t have a mother.”

Jackrabbit laughed, a sound that turned the boy’s stomach. “Ohhhhhh, everyone has a mother, sweet thing! But you...” Suddenly, it stretched its neck grotesquely, extending meters toward the boy, the mask inches from his face, yellow eyes piercing him. “You smell different. You’re not a virgin, are you? Papa Jackrabbit loves secrets, you know? I have so many secrets stored. Want to see?~”

The children around laughed, a low, empty sound echoing Jackrabbit’s voice. One, a girl with tangled hair, extended her hand, offering a handful of dark, rotten berries. The boy stepped back, instinct screaming to flee, but Jackrabbit lunged forward, its long legs bending grotesquely.

“Don’t be shy!” it said, its voice gayer now. “All the best children play with me. Look!” It pointed to the children, who began dancing in a circle, their movements mechanical, like puppets. “They’re so happy with me. Don’t you want to be free too? Little toy?~”

The boy shook his head, his yellow eye wide. “I... I just want to go back.”

“Back?” Jackrabbit tilted its head, the mask’s smile seeming to grow. “There’s no going back, sweet thing. Only forward. Come with me. I have sweets, toys, and a place where no one will ever find you.” It extended its other hand, holding a large potato sack, fuller than it should be, and definitely not with potatoes.

The boy stepped back, raising his sword. “Stay away!”

Jackrabbit laughed again, and then its body began to change. Its legs stretched further, arms elongated, fingers twisting into impossible angles. The mask remained still, but the body seemed to melt, like wax, stretching toward the boy like a starving predator. “Run, run, little toy!” it sang, its voice now a chorus of many, all laughing. “I love a child who runs!”

The boy turned and ran. The forest swallowed him again, branches whipping his face, roots trying to snag his feet. Behind him, the tap-tap of Jackrabbit’s polished shoes echoed, accompanied by the rustle of the children following.

The boy ran, his heart hammering, his side aching from the effort. The forest seemed alive, conspiring against him, twisted branches scratching his skin, roots rising like traps under his bare feet. The tap-tap of Jackrabbit’s shoes had stopped, his wooden sword long lost in the mud, and he felt the weight of his mistake in venturing so far.

He no longer knew where he was. The tree canopy blocked the sun entirely, plunging the world into suffocating darkness, the familiar trails had vanished, swallowed by a maze of shadows and thorns, panic made him stumble, his purple hair plastered to his sweaty face, searching for any sign of safety.

He tripped, his foot caught in a root. He fell, hands sinking into damp earth, the smell of rot and moss filling his nostrils. Desperate, he looked around and saw a hole among the roots of an ancient tree, a dark void that seemed to swallow light. Without thinking, he crawled inside, his thin frame squeezing against the cold earth. The space was tight, roots scraping his skin, but he curled up, his heart pounding so loudly he feared the creature might hear.

The silence that followed was worse, a void that held its breath. Then another sound came—a choked, wet breathing, heavy and dragging. The boy held his breath, his yellow eye peering through the hole. Something moved among the trees, a large, clumsy shape. He saw its paws first, muscular and covered in gray fur, stained with dried mud. Then the whole creature emerged from the darkness: a wolf, but headless. Where a head should be was only a jagged hole, the throat pulsing, thick yellowish saliva dripping in strands that gleamed in the faint light. The hole seemed to sniff the air, the body trembling as it moved, guided by blind, hungry instinct.

The boy curled tighter, his breathing short and silent, body pressed against the cold earth. The wolf stopped, its neck-hole turning toward him as if it could see. The saliva dripped, hissing as it touched the moss, and the stench of rotten flesh invaded his hiding place. His stomach churned as the headless wolf approached, fear turning solid. The wolf took a step, then another, its claws scraping the earth. It was so close now that the boy could hear the wet gurgle of its breathing, a grotesque sound from the headless torso.

He tried to crawl back, hands digging into the dirt, but the space was too small. A dry twig snapped under his weight, the sound cutting the silence like thunder. The wolf froze, turning directly toward the hole. With a growl that seemed to rise from the earth itself, it lunged.

The boy screamed, the sound caught in his throat as the wolf’s claws tore into the makeshift cape of linen and leather scraps the witch had sewn. The fabric ripped with a dry sound, and the boy thrashed, kicking and crawling to escape. The wolf was heavy, its hot, foul body trying to pin him down, saliva dripping onto his face, burning where it touched. He groped around, hands desperate, until he found a loose rock the size of a fist, crawling with startled insects.

With a desperate cry, he raised the rock and smashed it against the wolf’s stump. The impact made a wet sound, like crushing meat, and the creature staggered, a gurgling growl escaping the hole. The boy didn’t stop. He rose and struck again and again, the rock sinking into the exposed flesh, black, viscous blood splattering his face. The wolf writhed, paws clawing the ground, until, with a final blow, it collapsed, its body slumping like a sack of sand.

The boy stood, panting, the rock still in his hand, dripping black blood. He scanned the forest, searching for any sign of other creatures. The silence was heavy, but he knew he wasn’t safe. He dropped the rock, body trembling, and looked at the headless wolf, its saliva still bubbling from the neck. His torn cape hung uselessly from his shoulder.

The boy stood over the headless wolf, his breath ragged, his hands trembling. The rock slipped from his fingers, landing with a wet thud in the gore beneath him. Black blood clung to his skin, sticky and warm, smelling of iron and something sour—like meat left too long in the sun.

He kept staring at the corpse.

It didn’t look like a wolf anymore. Not really. Just a heap of fur and muscle, the stump of its neck still pulsing faintly, as if the beast hadn’t yet accepted its death. The saliva that had burned his skin now pooled in the dirt, hissing as it ate into the earth.

His stomach twisted.

He had killed before—rabbits, birds, things the witch made him hunt for supper—but this was different. This thing had been alive in a way those creatures hadn’t. And now it was nothing. Just dead meat.

He wiped his hands on his torn cape, but the blood wouldn’t come off. It smeared, dark and thick, under his nails, in the creases of his palms. He could taste it in the air, metallic and wrong.

His breath hitched.

Then, without warning, his body betrayed him. He doubled over, retching, bile rising sharp in his throat. He vomited onto the moss, his empty stomach heaving until there was nothing left but spit and the bitter aftertaste of fear.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his lips.

I killed it.

The thought didn’t feel real. He had fought, yes—clawed and struck like a cornered animal—but he hadn’t meant to kill. He had only wanted to live.

And yet, the wolf was dead. By his hands.

A strange numbness spread through him. His fingers tingled. His legs felt weak. He should be running already. But he couldn’t stop staring at the body.

What if it wasn’t really dead?

He kicked it. Once. Twice. The third time, his bare foot sank into the wet ruin of its neck, and he recoiled with a gasp, stumbling back. The wolf didn’t move.

Definitely dead.

Pretty dead.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest—hysterical, breathless. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle it.

Time seemed warped, folding in on itself. What had been a sickly twilight was now deep night, the black sky speckled with faint, indifferent stars. The hoot of owls cut the silence, a sharp, mournful sound marking midnight, though the boy wasn’t sure how so many hours had passed.

He walked, and walked, and walked, his bare feet cut by thorns and stones, the tattered cape hanging in rags. Unknowingly, his steps followed tracks in the earth—giant footprints, larger than any wolf or bear, pressed deep into the wet soil. Each print was wide enough to swallow both his feet, claw marks like stab wounds in the ground. He didn’t notice, lost in exhaustion, his mind clouded by fear and the hunger gnawing at his stomach.

The forest seemed endless, the trees taller and more twisted, their branches forming arches that blocked the moonlight. Then, through the shadows, he saw an orange glow, flickering like a pulsing heart. The smell of smoke hit him first, acrid and suffocating, followed by the crackle of burning wood. His chest tightened. He knew that place. He ran, ignoring the pain in his feet, until the clearing opened before him. The witch’s cabin—his home, the only one he’d ever known—was in flames.

Flames licked the vine-and-bone walls, the mossy roof collapsing into embers that floated like fireflies. The heat was oppressive, burning his skin even from a distance. And then he saw it: the wolf. Not like the headless one he’d killed. This one was colossal, larger than any creature he could imagine, with long, greenish fur that glowed like rotten moss in the firelight. Six eyes, arranged in an uneven arc on its head, glowed like embers, except for one, blind and milky, opaque as the dead moon. Its claws, long and thick, could slice through anything effortlessly. Its mouth was a cavern of horror, gaping wide, filled with hundreds of canine teeth, some as large as the boy’s torso, crowded in chaotic rows, dripping thick saliva that hissed as it hit the ground.

The wolf turned its head, and for a moment, the boy felt the weight of its eyes on him, his heart stopped, air trapped in his throat, but the creature didn’t advance, and with a growl that shook the ground, it turned and fled, its massive body vanishing into the forest’s darkness, trees twisting under its weight. The boy stood frozen, the growl echoing in his mind, mingling with the crackle of flames.

Slowly, he approached the hut, each step heavier than the last. The destruction was total. The shelves of jars had collapsed, shattered glass spilling murky liquids and floating organs onto the scorched earth. The cauldron lay overturned, its contents forming a bubbling pool in the heat. The petrified wooden bed, where he’d slept for so many nights, was now a pile of ashes. And the witch—his “mother”—was gone. Not a trace of her, not a single white hair, as if she had vanished completely.

Tears came before he could stop them, hot and salty, streaming down his face and dripping onto the burned earth. He fell to his knees, face pressed to the ground, the smell of ashes and rot filling his nostrils.

“Mother...” he whispered, the word escaping as a lament, though he already suspected she was never truly his mother. The weight of loneliness crushed him. The cabin, with all its horrors, was the only place he knew. And now, it was gone. He had nowhere to go.

Sobs tore through his throat, his hands clawing the earth, nails digging into the soil.

Exhaustion, fear and hunger—all mixed into a weight his thin frame could no longer bear. His scarred shoulders shook, his eye blurred with tears. He tried to stand, but his vision spun. With a final trembling breath, he collapsed, his body slumping onto the scorched earth, enveloped by the silence of the forest that watched, hungry.