8:04 pm: Two officers are driving through the outskirts of a town on a routine patrol. Typical, almost same-sized houses are only scarcely mixed in with two-storey big boys. The video pictures policemen sitting in silence for about two minutes. The owner of the camera starts softly humming some country song when the car radio turns on.

- Officer McLean?

- On patrol with Robbins. – answers the man on the left, in the driver’s seat, slowly losing his relaxed composure.

- 140 Dunston Street. Elderly Missis Chloe of 144 Dunston Street reported violent sounds coming from the house.

- Copy. Heading to the location.

8:09 pm: The police car gets parked in front of the house. There are another two cars already standing there as well as the owner’s Toyota on the driveway. All of the cars are locked and empty.

The officers get onto the sidewalk and take a quick glance at the neighborhood.

The street is deserted. More than half of the houses are still under construction. Even the visibly finished ones show very few signs of being lived in. Bare grey carcasses waiting under the hot sun. 140 Dunston Street stands like a proud, lone obelisk on a newly conquered land.

Policemen ring the doorbell, but the house remains silent. That’s when the noise becomes audible on the recording. It’s a shower of heart-shredding screams that doesn’t stop for a second.

8:11 pm: - Robbins and McLean at 140 Dunston. We request backup. We confirm loud screams from the house.

- We have another two officers on patrol nearby. Approximately 8 minutes. For now, continue with the emergency protocol. Entry allowed.

- Copy.

The policemen knock on the door a few more times, then switch to looking for other ways into the household. The screams continue.

8:13 pm: Robbins tries to open the windows, but everything is shut. Even the curtains are drawn neatly. As a last resort, he decides to reach for the backyard door.

- Charles, this one is not closed.

Both men surround the door and ready their firearms. Robbins’ hands are visibly slightly trembling. McLean, by contrast, makes an effort to keep his composure.

- Ok, going in.

Both of them move patiently into the area, but the yard seems unpleasantly empty. The inside lawn is well-kept and neatly cut. Otherwise, there are no plants at all. A tall white fence isolates the land from the rest of the block.

Screams become overwhelming. Like an entire crowd of kids and adults being slowly torn apart. McLean notices there is something too unnatural in those sounds, even for these circumstances.

- You hear, Robbins? It’s the same screams. I guess, repeating.

Officers proceed to the only location of interest: tables and chairs. Typical white furniture from Walmart.

Screams become louder and louder with every step they take.

Tired summer grass is covered in red splashes. The more, the closer it is to the noise. In the bright painted wood. Chairs especially are soaked in blood as if poor residents didn’t even stand up. Other than that, nothing indicates any kind of fight or violence. Some cupcakes, juice and pizza are still set at each seat, along with red and purple balloons still tied in a few places.

One of the tables is dedicated to a stack of colorful unopened presents piled upon each other.

On top of a huge pepperoni McLean finds an audio recorder. Not a grey professional one. Pink, with a little pony on top. It’s a simple one, for kids, still covered partially in red wrapping tape.

McLean presses a big red button, and all the screams stop.

The household is eerily in still silence now.

Some of the windows on the back side are not closed. The door into the house is open as well, leading into a short hallway. Darkness amassed there, layered over the young walls.

- McLean on location. Code 204. Signs of homicide in the backyard. A lot of blood. About a dozen civilians might be injured.

- Copy. Medical help is on the way. Have you located the residents?

- No. Only blood outside.

- Hold your position until the backup arrives. Don’t enter the house. Locate any residents or intruders. Stay safe.

- Copy.

The silence intensifies.

- Do you think adults ate pizza too? – Robbins mutters.

- What?

- There is pizza on every chair. Do you think the adults ate it too?

- I don’t get you. – answers McLean, looking only at the building.

- Well, I would buy myself something more interesting if you know what I mean.

- I would eat with the kids.

- I see.

The silence seems too much to bear.

- Charles, did something like this happen in our town?

- No.

- Even the narco-haist you told…

- No, nothing. Keep looking at the windows and don’t be a jerk right now, Robbins.

8:20 pm: McLean’s radio turns on.

- Truss and Curls at location. What are our next steps?

- McLean in the backyard with Robbins. Two people go into the house. Two people stay and watch outside. One of you will stay to watch the front.

- Copy. Truss will stay on the lawn. Are you ready to start?

- The front door is locked. – intervenes Robbins. – I’ll open it, Charles, and let one of them in.

McLean is visibly not fond of the plan, but nods.

- Officers, Robbins will open the front door for Curls from the inside. Be prepared. He goes in now.

- Copy.

8:22 pm: Robbins cautiously walks to the right, through the hall, into what seems to be the living room. The room is filled with yellow sunlight, greatly darkened by the curtains. Shadows dance around the furniture, some of which is still fully wrapped.

Robbins checks all of the dark corners and identifies the wardrobe as the biggest threat.

He slowly sneaks up to the wooden brown door and gets it wide open. There is a small synthesizer inside, child-size. Nothing else.

The dust is slowly swaying above the sofa as Robbins makes his way into the next room. It is the kitchen. This time there is very little space where someone could hide as even the biggest compartments are no wider than three feet; not long enough too.

Drip, drip, drip. The chocolate slowly runs down the table from a huge cake, still waiting for its part in the celebration.

Now it’s only a couple steps from the safety. The door is to the left, just past the stove.

The lock goes open easily in Robbins’ hands. Curls nods cordially and makes her way up the stairs.

- McLean?

- Observing the house.

- Curls is already inside. I see no sign of the residents.

- Well, nothing here. Continue with the search.

Robbins walks down the other part of the house, but no one is there. Even the rooms seem weirdly empty and dead.

- Officer Robbins? This is Truss. Another 2 cars arrived. What are our next steps?

The footage returns to black.

8:22 pm: Charles McLean watches from a distance as Robbins walks into the house. Nothing else happens for 2 minutes as McLean marches left and right across the backyard, inspecting the property. The house looks obscure and yet fairly unchanged after all the events of the day.

McLean answers the radio to Robbins. And yet, some sound doesn’t allow the previous silence to fully come back. The officer seems not to pay much attention to it, until just a few seconds later, the whistling appears to be right outside the backyard fence. The whistling that no one else reported that evening.

The melody is not slow, but soft and calming. A simple old-style tune. Clear and continuous.

McLean turns around and walks closer to the noise, to the wooden gate leading into the forest. No one checked it before because visually it was untouched and clean.

He descends a short hill to where the trees meet the town. The sun is already setting, allowing huge shadows to cover the bushes. The growth itself does not stand like a wall, but is sparsely scattered below the tree line.

The officer stands on the sun-dried ground, attuned to the melody. He straightens his spine as his breathing becomes calm and steady.

Suddenly, the whistling ends. I’m not sure exactly when he became visible, but I noticed him a few seconds later. There is a Man in the bush. His white mask is contrasting the shadows, peering right into the camera. I think, the officer notices him too because he suddenly changes his posture.

The Man quickly disappears among the branches.

McLean stands in silence. Then his feet start walking. The whistling swells again, louder, steady. McLean walks to the bush and moves the wild green branches out of the way. The leaves are so plentiful that his hands vanish in the mossy tangle. The officer has to apply force to move through such a firm barrier. The sound is closer than ever before. One moment and you’ll be able to touch it.

A small space between the island of the overgrown bushes, maybe 20 feet wide. The Man stands there. Still and curious. His rabbit mask is strikingly distinct among the natural landscape.

Both men look at each other for no longer than 10 seconds. Then the masked one puts his hand up, then the other, and pivots 90 degrees to the left. His legs connect to the sporadic movement. He repeats it two times more.

He is dancing. Queer moves. Not a dance a casual person is used to, I imagine. Graceful, repetitive acts. Very smooth for such a dancer. I am sure, several times his ankles turn full 180 degrees, but it looked so natural. The paws softly stepping on the forest floor, the hands changing angles as far as they could, even his fingers were not static. Have you seen those pictures of the human locomotor system? Imagine if every muscle on the body was moving in some way, but not random. Its own kind of art. Something so alive.

It goes on for maybe a minute. Just a Man in a suit dancing among the bushes. McLean doesn’t look away throughout the whole thing, but instead makes another step closer. The Man stops dancing. McLean puts up his hands to his chest and claps playfully. Fingers trembling. The rabbit bows to the audience. Then points his finger upwards like a performer. Here’s another trick before the moment is gone.

He pulls up a big kitchen knife, the one later found missing from the house, and takes a sporty throwing stance like he is currently in a good old game of darts. The knife flies straight, hitting somewhere beneath the camera. McLean moans and falls on his back. Then claps again.

There are soft footsteps to the left of the body. McLean’s moans and wheezes become muffled, as if there is an object lodged deep into his mouth, until the silence takes hold. After this, the recording goes on for 7 hours. Someone grabs the body by the feet and the dragging starts. Deeper and deeper into the forest. The sun goes down, but the movement doesn’t stop.

- Officer McLean, confirm your location.

Periodically you can hear as the officer’s head or one of the limbs gets stuck on a stone or a wild root. It doesn’t slow down the movement, just causes a faint cracking sound.

11:21 pm: The dragging stops. The night sky high above shines brightly. So starry and clear. Not the one you could ever see in a town. Then, in a second, the stars disappear too. Just the complete darkness of the night.

11:47 pm: Have you ever been in a butcher house? The sounds of the milky bones, strained muscles and tissue slowly coming apart, into neat equal pieces. The sounds are fairly distant, but are close enough to hear every separate move of the blade. A saw, a knife or other instruments. All mixed in.

3:07 am: Only the sounds of the forest. Crickets in the short green grass and some night birds far away, hunting their furry catches.

End of the recording.

- Are you the Easter Bunny? Hey, behind the tree.

The window squeaks. Open against the wind of the night.

- No, regretfully I am not the one, – a sweet voice of a man. Maybe in his 30s. Strong sense of rhythm and tact. – but I am a fairy bunny in other ways. Estou dizendo a verdade.

- Do you do wishes?

- Oh, yes. How could you know?

- You look like someone who could, Mr. Rabbit.

- True. Un clavo saca otro clavo. I’ve done many magical things. What is your wish, little honey?

- Well. I have a birthday tomorrow and I want a dog.

- A dog? Won’t your parent provide that?

- Well, my father has an allergy, so I don’t think they will buy it.

- I see, my dear. – the man sounds genuinely sad.

- Can you solve it?

- Solve exactly what?

- The allergy.

- Yes, I will think what I can do. And what kind of dog would you like?

- Well, a big dog. I, em… Would be so cool to play with someone.

- Is an old dog good enough for you? Toshiyori no baka.

- Well, an old one?

- Yes, dear.

- How old will he live then?

- Well, depends on how well you all will feed him. If you won’t hurt him. If you won’t hunt him.

- Em, no, not that. We won’t.

- Would you like to play together with him?

- Yes, a lot. In the trees too.

- In the forest?

- Yes.

- Well, it makes everything much easier. Min skæbne er din skæbne.

- So, will you give me a dog, Mr. Rabbit?

- Yeah, but not today. Don’t let a single worry fog your brain. Sleep well, Maria.

- Are you going somewhere?

- Miracles come when you least expect them. Goodbye, Mary.