Easter Eggs and Bunny Boilers: A Horror Anthology

by Matt Shaw

  Before Justin could say anything, the rabbit turned and hopped away - down the landing and down the stairs out of sight. Justin wondered whether he’d imagined the whole thing but - when he looked back down… There was the egg, waiting for him in the basket. His egg.

  Smiling, the young lad picked the basket up. Now most children would have thought about scoffing the chocolatey goodness for themselves - right there and then - but not Justin. His thoughts were far less selfish. His dad was hungry. His mum was upset. He’d share the egg with them! And with the thought in his head - there was no better time to do so than right now!

  With the egg in hand - and the basket left on the floor - he ran down the stairs just in time to see the rabbit disappear out of the un-used cat-flap in the door; installed by the family who had lived in the large house many moons ago.

  ‘What are you doing up?’ his father’s voice boomed. Justin jumped. His dad was standing in the doorway with an empty crisp packet in his hand and a stern look on his tired face.

  ‘What’s that you have there?’ Justin’s mother was standing in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes fixed upon the chocolate egg.

  ‘The Easter Rabbit!’ Justin blurted out. ‘He was right here! He gave me a chocolate egg! Look! I mean - I thought he wasn’t real but…’

  ‘What?’ his father interrupted him. ‘The Easter Rabbit? Where?’

  Justin - confused at his father’s outburst - pointed towards the cat-flap that was still swinging. He explained, ‘I thought we could share it. I heard you from upstairs. You’re still hungry…’

  The father pushed Justin out of the way and grabbed his rifle from where it rested in the hallway cabinet. And - with that - he was out of the same door the rabbit had used, out onto his farmland.

  Justin - tears in his eyes - turned to his mum, ‘I thought we could share the egg,’ he said.

  His mother smiled sympathetically, ‘It was a lovely idea. Thank you.’

  From outside - a rifle shot rang through the air.

  ‘It’s probably best you go to bed now,’ Justin’s mother advised.

  Deflated, Justin turned away from his mother and walked back up the stairs towards his bedroom. His Easter egg - his easter egg - still in his hands.

  Tomorrow will be a better day.

  *

  Tomorrow had come and the day had been just as any other day that had passed before it. There had been no more chocolate eggs for Justin, not that he minded, and no one mentioned what had happened the previous day. No one needed to. It was evident from the dinner plate - resting on the table before Justin - what had happened. His father - the hardworking farmer - had chased after the rabbit, he had pulled the trigger of his gun, he had fired his shot and he had killed the rabbit. One shot, one kill. And then his mother had ripped the fur from the body and gutted it before cooking it in the oven. No frozen pie for dinner this evening and no frozen pie for the following evening too given how far she’d managed to stretch the meat, and the fact Justin that- with tears in his eyes - didn’t want to eat any of it.

  ‘So - boy,’ his father said with a mouthful of murdered rabbit, ‘how’s about some of your egg for dessert?’ As he spoke, a small splattering of meat sprayed from his mouth onto Justin’s hand, ‘Sound good?’

  Justin didn’t answer. He didn’t want to talk to his dad ever again although - for the sake of keeping the peace - he didn’t make this obvious to his father. Had he not tried to do the right thing by sharing his egg. Had he not tried to make his mother and father happy. The poor rabbit. Not just any rabbit.

  The Easter Rabbit.

  The father was now looking up to the mother - a cold stare designed to get her attention.

  ‘Get me a beer,’ he ordered when she finally looked up.

  THE END

  Bio

  MATT SHAW is the published author of over 120 stories. Although known as being one of the UK’s leading extreme horror authors, he also enjoys spending time in other genres too - something he had always planned to do in order to have at least one book, in a wide collection, which would appeal to people from all walks of life. Shaw was first published in 2004 with his horror novel Happy Ever After - the first of his books to reach the number one slot on Amazon and the first of his books to use his trademark style of narrating the stories through the first person perspective. An extremely prolific writer, Matt Shaw is continually writing as well as keeping up to date with his readers via his (some might say) crazy Author Page on Facebook.

  Currently he has half of his back catalogue being translated into Korean and German, has sold multiple film rights and has opened the doors to his own publishing company.

  Matt Shaw is also one of the first authors to offer up personalised stories for his readers and the chance for them to appear (and die) in his many stories - something which is being offered up more and more by other authors in the community.

  www.facebook.com/mattshawpublications

  www.mattshawpublications.co.uk

  Bastard Bunny

  David Owain Hughes

  Same fucking charade, every fucking year! he thought, looking up at the suit that was hanging on the wardrobe. Well, not this fucking Easter. They can all fuck off!

  “Henry, do hurry down!” he heard Henrietta call from the dining room. “We’re all dying to see you in your pretty get up.”

  I’m sure you are.

  He could hear them chuckling at his misfortune.

  “Poor Henry. The chap does it every year!” he overheard John Green say, followed by a horsey laugh from his wife Charlie.

  “Nonsense! Henry loves it,” Henrietta said, snorting a laugh.

  Bastards! “I’ll be down in a moment, dear!” Henry called, trying to remain calm. But it was proving difficult. All week people had asked and ribbed him about Easter.

  ‘Will you be dressing as Mr. Winkle Whiskers this year?’ or ‘I can’t wait to see your floppy ears and squishy tail, Henry!’

  “Ugh! It’s enough to make a fucking saint swear,” he uttered. A tick had developed at the side of his face on Monday, and had gradually worsened as the week wore on. Good Friday, he thought, continuing to look up at the outsized bunny costume his wife made him wear every Easter without fail.

  ‘The children love it, dear!’ she’d coo.

  Little fucking monsters! I hope they choke on their mini eggs, or whatever it is they eat these days.

  Once dressed in the atrocity, she would make him attend the annual church fete and run an Easter egg hunt for the children.

  It drove him nuts.

  Some of the younger children behaved, but not the older ones. They would often belittle him or throw eggs at him – the chocolate and hardboiled kind.

  It was a grown man’s worst nightmare.

  It was a minefield of snot, taunts, goo-goo-ga-gas, chocolate bunnies and humiliation; a wet dream for a perverted, sadomasochist fuck-sack who has a tendency for young flesh.

  Last year, he recalled, some shit-head dumped a spoonful of ice cream down the trapdoor of my suit. The dollop of chocolate was wedged against my anus, before making a cold, slippery path towards my ankle. How the people laughed when they saw me shaking my leg like I was having a fucking fit. Then, as if things couldn’t get worse, out pops the hard scoop of ice cream.

  ‘Ha-ha, old man Henry’s shit himself!’ some heinous twerp had bellowed.

  “Even Henrietta had laughed,” he muttered with clenched teeth. His jaw ached. “Well, ‘Old man Henry’ has a few surprises of his own, this year.”

  He stared into the rabbit’s huge hazel eyes. “Mr. Winkle Whiskers my arse! Bastard Bunny, more like.”

  The bunny’s head looked ridiculous – the ears were coloured pink and white, with one flopped over. The other stood stiff, like a defiant hard-on. The nose was minuscule, with huge, cartoon-like whiskers sprouting from either side. However, one set was longer than the other, due to Henry being held down one year by teenagers who had snipped them.

  The thought ma
de his blood boil.

  Some of those teenagers’ parents were currently sat in his dining room, awaiting a feast he was preparing.

  ‘Oh, they’re only children, Henry. Don’t take it to heart,’ Tim Nettles had said of the incident. ‘Boys will be boys!’ Emma, his wife, had chirped.

  “And nutters will be nutters!” he said, laughing. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his bolt-action shotgun lying on his bed. A box of cartridges stood by its side. The gleaming barrel and hypnotic walnut stock were inviting.

  Turning back to the suit, he grinned. “This will be the best Easter ever!”

  Whooping, he stood up and grabbed the costume.

  “I may as well give them one last chuckle this Good Friday,” he said, a laugh bursting from him.

  Throwing the bunny suit onto the bed, he started to undress. He slipped out of his black shoes and trousers before removing his black tunic, clerical collar and white shirt.

  Who’d be a fucking vicar anyway?! I’ve devoted my life to a false God and the worst piece of fiction ever written.

  “Hen-ry!” his wife bellowed. “Hurry down, will you?”

  “Coming, dear!” he said, before muttering, “Fucking whore.”

  Naked, he looked at his scrawny arms, legs and body. They disgusted him. Pushing the thoughts aside, he stepped into the bastard bunny costume and zipped it up. Before putting the head on, he glanced in the full-length mirror.

  I look hideous. On the chest was a giant carrot being munched by a baby rabbit; a small basket of eggs stood by its side. I wouldn’t make a child dress like this, let alone a man in his early forties.

  Putting the head on, he then picked up the shotgun and shells and walked out of the bedroom door. As he crossed the hallway, he stopped at the room where his girls slept – Lucy, seven, and Tina, eight; the room also held a Moses basket for Jacob, his baby boy.

  Looking in the room, he remembered how the girls had laced his costume with itching powder three Easters ago, which Henrietta had organised. The year before that, they’d put ants and bugs in bastard bunny’s head, which they had orchestrated themselves.

  He was seen as the village idiot, not a man of the cloth- a man who should be respected and somewhat feared.

  He gripped the gun fiercely

  Well, that will soon change! A crimson mist rolled over his vision. All he could hear were the screams of the dead and dying. There’s only so much pushing a man can take.

  Ripping his gaze off the Moses basket, he pocketed the shells and hid the weapon down the front of his costume. Filling his lungs, he started downstairs.

  “Shh-shh!” he heard Henrietta say. A few titters were stifled. “He’s coming. Christine, get the camera ready!”

  Poor lambs. They have no idea, do they? Twelve hungry bellies are about to get filled with fish, roast and buckshot!

  When he got to the bottom step, he took another deep breath. Just beyond the door to his left, he could hear them whisper and giggle.

  Huffing, he bowed his head and shuffled through the door.

  A wave of laughter crashed against him.

  Beneath his face covering, Henry could feel his cheeks burn. He’d never been good around a lot of people in close quarters, especially when dressed like a fool.

  I’ve always loathed fancy dress, which Henrietta knows. She loves pushing my buttons.

  “Do the dance!” Christine encouraged him.

  Looking at her, he drank her in. She was a fat, fifty-something slut who wore skirts way too short for her age, leaving her stocking tops visible for all to see.

  No wonder that no good husband of yours left you! Henry thought, trying to avoid the sight of her thick thighs. Even with a gin-soaked brain, he could see through your lies and knew you were screwing every Tom, Dick and Harry! Well, you’re probably not interested in Tom or Harry.

  The camera flash partially blinded him as he hopped, bounced and danced the dance of Mr. Winkle Whiskers. Everyone whooped, cheered and laughed as he made a complete spectacle of himself.

  That’s right, laugh it up!

  “Say it!” Catherine Goodson chimed. “I want to hear you say it, Henry!”

  “Yes, please do!” her husband added.

  “Are you ready, children?!” Henry said in a goofy voice, causing a hush to fall over his flock. “I can’t hear you?!”

  Some of his audience members screamed. “Yes!”

  “Then here comes Mr. Winkle Whiskers with his basket of eggs!” Henry said, starting to hop around the room in a crazed fashion again. “Follow the rabbit, children! Boing, boing, boing…”

  “Ha-ha, oh my!” Henrietta laughed. “Look at him, girls!”

  “He’s silly!” Tina said.

  “What a fool,” Lucy agreed.

  “Mr. Winkle Whiskers has buried his eggs in his cabbage patch. Come and find them, children!” Henry screeched, which was a full-stop to his humiliation, as he bunny-bounced into the kitchen and out of view.

  “Ha-ha, what a jester!” Henry heard one of his guests say.

  “I know,” Henrietta said. “It’s nice having a man in his place.”

  “I need to get my Simon trained,” Beth Gibson added.

  “Best of luck!” he shot back.

  Motherfuckers. All of them!

  Taking the head of his costume off, Henry ducked his head back through the kitchen door and addressed his twelve guests. “Could you take a seat at the table, please?”

  His wife perched herself at the head of the impressive dining table, whilst their daughters took up seats either side of her.

  Turning his back, he opened the oven and removed the six large bass from the oven. After seasoning the fish with cyanide, salt and pepper, he whipped the large tray into the dining room and told his guests to dig in.

  “The roast and vegetables will follow shortly!” he said, rushing back into the kitchen.

  Whilst opening the oven he noticed the radio. “Hmm, why not!” Turning it on, the room was instantly filled with the sound of a band he didn’t recognise. They were singing a song about breaking the law. “Catchy!”

  Removing the roast, he put it onto a platter, covered it with a lid, and returned to the dining room. He noticed everyone had started eating the fish except his wife and daughters. A smile played across his face as he put the platter down in the centre of the table.

  “Mm! Smells scrummy!” Charlie said.

  “Oh, it sure does!” Henrietta agreed.

  “Voila!” Henry said, whisking the lid off the roast.

  “Jesus!” Christine said.

  “Not quite!” Henry said.

  “Jacob!” Henrietta screamed at seeing her son’s tiny, smouldering body. It was charcoaled. When Henry put a butcher knife to it, chunks of flesh fell away, causing a scattering of black dust on the white table cloth.

  “Hmm, I may have left it in the oven too long!” Henry said. “Sorry, folks!”

  To his side, John Green fainted. His face smashed through his plate and slammed against the table. Blood dribbled out of his open mouth, along with a few broken teeth and chunks of china.

  “Oh, dear!” Henry said.

  “You sick bastard!” Simon said, getting up from his seat. But then he started to violently cough blood and vomit.

  “Is the bass not agreeing with you, simple Simon?!”

  “You…Ugh!” Simon collapsed to his knees, keeling over. Henry could see Simon’s bowels had discharged in a hostile way – his excrement was seeping through his trousers and coating the carpet.

  The others guests started screaming and crying.

  “Don’t go, people! What about dessert?” Henry said, removing the bolt-action from inside his costume. Slamming a cartridge in, he cocked the weapon and fired.

  The round blasted into Christine’s flabby gut; the wide spray of ball bearings tore through furniture, plates, and picture frames, and removed half of Beth Gibson’s face.

  She hit the deck with an earth-shattering scream, and she tried to h
old what was left of her face together.

  Blood splashed across the table and erupted up a wall.

  With a fresh cartridge loaded and cocked, he blew a hole through Catherine’s neck before unloading a lucky round into her husband’s crotch. Mr. Goodson’s pulped privates tore through his anus and smeared a nearby wall.

  Unloading, Henry slammed another shell into the gun. From behind him, John was starting to come around.

  “Argh!” he screamed, picking shards of glass from his face.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Henry put the muzzle of the shotgun to the man’s head and fired. It blew apart like a ripe pumpkin hitting the floor; portions of brain and skull matter pebble dashed the table, floor, wall and Henry.

  When the dust finally settled, Henry made his way around the fallen bodies and clubbed the wounded to death. His kill count numbered nine.

  Henrietta and the girls were missing.

  Loading a fresh round into his gun, he cocked the weapon fiercely.

  He knew they hadn’t escaped the house, because he’d made sure every door and window had been locked and bolted.

  Entering the hallway, he looked at himself in the mirror. His face and costume were plastered in blood, with chunks of brain clinging to his bald head.

  Floorboards creaked above him.

  “Are you ready, children?” he screamed manically. “Looks like old man Henry gets to have his own Easter hunt this year,” he concluded, climbing the stairs to the second floor.

  THE END

  Bio

  David Owain Hughes is a horror freak! He grew up on ninja, pirate and horror movies from the age of five, which helped rapidly install in him a vivid imagination. When he grows up, he wishes to be a serial killer with a part-time job in women’s lingerie…He’s had several short stories published in various online magazines and anthologies, along with articles, reviews and interviews. He’s written for This Is Horror, Blood Magazine and Horror Geeks Magazine. He’s the author of the popular novel “Walled In” (2014), along with his short story collections “White Walls and Straitjackets” (2015) and "Choice Cuts" (2015).