Killer Rabbits 殺人兔 殺人ウサギ

Venice had always worn masks.

But on certain nights—when the fog rolled in thick from the lagoon and swallowed the lamplight whole—the masks wore something darker beneath.

It began during Carnevale.

No one noticed them at first. Why would they? Venice was a city of spectacle—of velvet, lace, and elaborate disguises. A pair of rabbit-headed performers dancing in a narrow alley off Campo San Zaccaria drew smiles, not suspicion. Their costumes were exquisite: one in faded black, stiff and prim like a porcelain doll; the other in burnt orange, frayed and theatrical, grinning too wide beneath its fur.

They posed for photographs. They bowed. They laughed.

And then they followed.

Lucia Bellini first heard the whispers.

A photographer by trade, she roamed the quieter corners of Venice at night, chasing shadows and reflections. Her camera loved the city’s forgotten places—the damp alleys, the crumbling walls, the silent canals where no gondola passed.

That was where she saw them.

The black rabbit stood with one leg lifted, frozen mid-curtsy. The orange one leaned close behind, its long ears catching the faint glow of a dying lantern. Their masks—too real, too detailed—seemed to watch her through the lens.

Lucia snapped a photo.

The flash went off.

They didn’t blink.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, lowering her camera. “May I—”

The black rabbit’s head tilted.

The orange one’s grin widened.

Lucia felt something tighten in her chest.

Then, without a word, they turned and slipped into the darkness.

The first body was found near the Rialto Bridge.

A tourist. No witnesses. No signs of struggle—only a grotesque expression frozen on his face, as if he had seen something impossible before he died. Around him, scattered on the stone, were faint smears of red… and a single white tuft of fur.

The police blamed panic. Or drugs. Or coincidence.

But Lucia knew better.

She had developed the photograph.

In the image, the rabbits stood exactly as she had seen them.

Except—

There was something else.

Behind them, faint but unmistakable, were shapes. Blurred figures. Faces pressed into the darkness of the alley, as if trying to escape the frame. Their mouths were open in silent screams.

And the rabbits—

They were smiling.

More deaths followed.

Always at night. Always near the quieter canals. Always with that same look of terror etched into the victims’ faces.

The city grew uneasy. Masks began to feel less like celebration and more like concealment.

Lucia returned to the alley.

The fog was thicker now. The air smelled of damp stone and something metallic.

She raised her camera.

“Come out,” she whispered.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then—

A soft tapping.

Footsteps.

The black rabbit stepped into the light first, dress swaying gently. The orange one followed, head cocked, grin stretching wider than seemed possible.

“You’ve been watching me,” Lucia said, her voice trembling.

The orange rabbit laughed—a low, guttural sound that didn’t belong to any human throat.

The black one curtsied.

Lucia lifted her camera again.

“Who are you?”

The black rabbit raised a gloved hand… and slowly, deliberately, pointed—not at her—

But at the camera.

Lucia hesitated.

Then she looked through the lens.

And screamed.

The photograph showed the truth.

The rabbits were not alone.

They were never alone.

Behind them, filling the alley, stretching into the darkness, were dozens—no, hundreds—of figures. Twisted, pale, half-formed. Their bodies pressed against the edges of reality itself, as if the rabbits were holding them back… or leading them through.

And where the rabbits’ eyes should have been—

There was nothing.

Only empty, waiting darkness.

—

Lucia dropped the camera.

When she looked up again, the rabbits were closer.

Too close.

The orange one reached out, its hand brushing her cheek. Its fur was wet.

Warm.

“Smile,” it whispered.

Lucia ran.

She didn’t stop until she reached the Grand Canal, gasping, trembling, the city suddenly too open, too exposed.

Behind her, in the distance, she heard laughter.

—

The next morning, Lucia’s camera was found on the steps of a small church.

The photograph inside had changed.

Where the rabbits once stood alone, there were now three figures.

Two in masks.

And one—frozen mid-scream—caught between them.

Her eyes wide.

Her mouth open.

Her reflection trapped forever in the dark glass of Venice.

—

And on nights when the fog returns, and the alleys grow silent…

Some swear they see them.

The black rabbit curtsying.

The orange rabbit grinning.

And between them—

A third figure, struggling, reaching out—

As the city of masks quietly makes room for one more.

Killer Rabbits is a growing trend of a more modern kind of masks/ costumes at the Venice Carnevale. The original photos were done against a dark grey wall at the busy streets of Venice during Carnevale. Different backdrops were then added on to give the photos a more movie like feel. As usual, a mock movie poster was created...