I was already convinced that the hearing and seeing of things—the  looming shadows and invisible feet roaming the house—was nothing but the result of my overacting nerves and midwinter misery. But, could Mr. Bunny’s endless game of hide-and-seek also be a figment of my mental strain?

I refused to believe it. Every time I searched for Mr. Bunny, it was neither on Molly’s bed, nor in the same place than the night before, and never in places where Molly could have dropped it. That silly stuffed rabbit seemed to have a life of its own, and that was not a delusion. My mind could had reinterpreted normal sounds as weird or uncanny, even conjured a shapes from the empty darkness of a corner, but it could not move a toy. I had no doubt, Mr. Bunny’s nightly pilgrimages were re...

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