I have always loved the man-made sounds that break the quiet of the night: passing cars, train whistles, the morning newspaper being delivered. These sounds, particularly in my youth, offered me comfort and safety, someone else was awake, alert, standing guard without any knowledge of their appointment to this powerful and protective role. My fear of the night was well-known in my family and lasted inappropriately long–well into my late teens–dissipating only when I entered college and moved into a dormitory that housed more than 500 wonderfully nocturnal humans. But before this Heaven-on-Earth housing assignment, deviations from my nighttime routine were rare: Fan, check. AM radio set to the staticky overnight talk shows that were broadcast from Cleveland, check. Corner lamp on, check. TV off, check. That last requirement may seem counter-intuitive but it was the 1970s, and to be awakened by the National Anthem and subsequent sign-off tone at the witching hour of 2:00 AM was the kiss of death for me. The parameters of acceptable waking times were rigid- to be awakened before midnight or after 4:00 AM were safe; after all, my dad got up for work at 4:30 and then dawn was close enough to allow me to slip back into my slumber. If, God forbid, I opened my eyes in that 4 hour window of terror, my fate was sealed: I would lay motionless, paralyzed, sweating from a combination of fear and now-suffocating blankets that I refused to come out from under, listening for unexplainable noises, and waiting for some unknown force to find me. I wanted to cry, but my silence hid my presence while I prayed for dawn to come. What was I expecting might happen? Who or what was I waiting for and hiding from? Many years would pass before I understood the cause.

My sister, Heather, was my loyal companion throughout much of my introverted childhood existence. She was two years my junior and always included me in with her circle of friends. Her devotion extended into my nightly wee-hours requests for accompaniment to the bathroom, and it rarely took more than a light tap to get her to rise, without speaking, to join me on the trek down the 1970s avocado shag-carpeted hallway. On one particular night, timestamped only by the matching nightgowns recently sewn by our mother (Simplicity circa 1976), our nightly journey would quietly but profoundly transform the rest of my childhood.

To set the stage, picture a split-level middle class Midwestern house that sat as the neighborhood anchor where all the tar-covered streets converged. We were the only house with a swimming pool in the yard, albeit an above the ground find from the local salvage store, but it was the summer yard where neighborhood bikes would lay as plans were organized for the day among the young riders, and neighborhood ladies would gather for some sun, cigarettes, and chatter. Inside, shades of orange and green dominated, with a velvet sofa and chairs in the living room, and a brown and yellow plaid couch that paired well with the fashionably-paneled walls in the den. All floors carpeted and all walls papered in florals, trellises or bicentennial charm. A black wrought-iron rail led up the stairs and wrapped around to a balcony landing on the second floor, with a spectacular mirror-tiled wall for the backslash. It was this mirror that reflected the image of my sister and I in matching nightgowns, ages 6 and 8, as we walked from our shared bedroom side-by-side that night.

The first hint of oddity came from the flood of light that blinded our night eyes as we made our way to the bathroom in those still pitch-dark hours. The living room glowed. Every light was not only on but also seemed much brighter than usual. A child’s mind rationalizes quickly, and I dismissed the strange illumination as the result of forgetful parents. As Heather and I got closer to the wrought iron railing that separated the elevated hallway from the living room, I saw something moving… walking actually… from the living room toward kitchen. In sync, Heather and I kneeled down in front of the railing, our hands holding the cold metal rails while our faces peered through to see the creature that stood down below. It was a very large white rabbit, standing upright. It stood at least 7 feet tall and if I had stretched my hand out through the rails, I could have touched it. It stopped instantly when it became aware of our presence and turned its head quickly to meet our now-frozen faces. The massive creature had a colorful poncho of some kind over one shoulder and a sack over the other, amusing enough that I don’t remember feeling frightened; what I do remember were the rabbit’s large eyes–almond-shaped and onyx black, like the darkest waters of the ocean at its deepest point. The eyes were the whole of the creature, not the costume it had wrapped itself into. It communicated with us and the message was clear, “Get up. Go back to bed. Never speak of this night again.” I heard the message from somewhere in my head, but not through my ears. No sound was ever made and the rabbit’s mouth never moved, but I knew Heather had received the message too, because we stood up together and followed the clear instructions we had been given.

It must have been something about the safety of that dorm, the distance now placed between my childhood home and this college town, that allowed the memory of that night to catapult from its hiding place and into my conscious mind some 10 years later. It was there suddenly and completely, and I shared it with my roommates–one of whom was an art major–and soon she had sketched, almost perfectly, the creature she named “Demon Bunny.” It was a vividly detailed memory without question, and my roommates and I brainstormed the rational and the irrational possibilities: a dream? a nightmare? an alien? a burglar? The weekend following my revelation, I headed home for a visit that included a shopping trip with my mom and sister. Demon Bunny was now alive and well in my mind but its message was still firmly fixed–”Never speak of this night again”–and I was fearful of the consequence that might follow if I violated that pact.

I had decided to share my story with my mom and Heather, and I finally threw caution to the wind as we drove along on our shopping trip, “You know, I had the strangest memory come back to me recently. I think it was a dream… haha… but here it goes…” I told my story to my mom and sister, both with very different reactions. My mom’s concerned and confused stares alternated back and forth from the road to her narrating passenger and back again. Heather, who had been relaxing in the back seat now slid her body forward and leaned her whole head into the front seat space between my mom and I, her face drained of color. “That wasn’t a dream. I remembered it a few years ago, ” she said. My mom nearly drove off the road, asking why she hadn’t talked about it before this moment. I already knew the answer. My sister, just inches from my head, and with a now deeply accusatory and worried tone directed her response at me, “Because we were told not to.” With the cat, or more accurately the rabbit, out of the bag we compared stories, matching detail to detail the events of that night–the lights, the colored poncho, the sack, the eyes, and the message. My mom, who had just finished the alien-based book Communion: A True Story, was convinced that the rabbit was an extraterrestrial. My sister committed to silence on the topic after that weekend and today remains hesitant to discuss it any further. I have done some research into the topic over the years and while I felt ridiculous entering the search words “big white rabbit in my house”, “rabbit with eyes that spoke to me”, and “do shape-shifters exist?” into my computer, I did stumble across a concept from Celtic folklore that seemed to check many of the boxes: the Pooka.

The word “Pooka” is believed to have come from the old Irish word for Goblin (puca) or perhaps the Scandanvian word “pook/puke” meaning ‘nature spirit’. According to the lore, it appears only at night, enjoys creating mischief, and it is often inclined to conversation. They can take the form of any animal, although most commonly they appear as horses with glowing eyes. Pookas are credited with being benevolent, protective, and sometime havoc-wreakers. They often leave those who encounter them with a questioning of whether or not the visit was even real. One of the first things I ever read about Pookas was that when they appear to a child, they seek to forever alter the perception of reality for that child. Hollywood has borrowed the Pooka for now-famous films like Harvey (1950), Donnie Darko (2001), and Pooka (2018). I’m still not sure what we saw that night, but I don’t think was a “demon” and I certainly hope it wasn’t an alien. I can live with the idea of the Pooka so that’s where I landed. I’m fascinated to hear other people’s stories of unexplained events that may be similar to mine. What happened and how did it affect you?