The sound of my son’s chatter, with occasional bouts of tiny thunderous laughter, echoed throughout my quiet house. This normally would be a heartwarming sound, but when it wakes you at 2:00 AM, it elicits a different type of feeling still localized to the heart: stress. Like most of us (maybe just me), my son is prone to talk in his sleep once his brain enters the fast-paced and often sought-after R.E.M. state. But even as I jolted out of my dream and into the world of St. Louis, I realized something seemed off. The voice was scratchy and a little more high-pitched than Archie’s normal “talking in his sleep voice,” if that makes any sense.

I laid there, debating whether to go investigate, let it ride, or wait for my wife to wake up from the chatter, and I would fake being asleep to avoid having to get out of bed at all. Despite the latter being my preferred option, the moral compass hasn’t broken completely, so I slid out of bed like a newborn calf and snuck out of our bedroom. The cool spring air from the open windows hit my bare skin and if I wasn’t fully awake already, I was now. Tiptoeing towards his bedroom, the sounds became more faint, and by the time his bedroom handle was in my clutches, the house was silent. For good measure, I entered his room anyway, tucked him in, and gave him a kiss on the forehead while whispering words of wisdom and positive aspirations. Feeling obliged to make sure all things are equal between my children, I snuck into my daughter’s room to give her the same tucking in, kiss on the head, and positive aspirations.

As I made the journey past the sleeping dog back to the bedroom, I heard the combination of chattering and laughter from my son again. I pivot, reverse course, and make my way back to his room, certain now he was faking being asleep earlier and must be playing. I swung open the door and saw he was sound asleep, evident by his larger-than-life snoring (he may actually need his tonsils removed per his dentist), and he was completely unfazed by my Kramer-like entrance. Certain that I’d just been duped, I started asking questions, assuming he had to know the jig is up, but he just kept snoring…and his chattering voice with bouts of laughter also continued. That’s when another feeling localized to the chest entered the scene: panic. Quickly, I left his room, leaving the door ajar, and followed the sound of my “son’s” voice.

Though faint, it was loudest in my bedroom, where the open window was. My wife was still asleep as I snuck past the bed and peeked out of the windows, searching for the culprit. Worried that one of the new neighbor’s kids was outside, I threw on my robe, slid into my house shoes, and grabbed my phone before heading outside. I entered the yard with my phone’s flashlight on, moving it left to right as I entered the yard. Not only was there no kid, there was nothing moving out there besides the trees in the wind, and the only sound came from the crickets. Just then, I saw a light emanating from my neighbor’s yard. He was also outside doing the same thing, and we locked eyes before asking each other if we’d heard the sounds. Talk about being freaked out; what in the actual STL was going on around here?! Now officially creeped out, we said our goodnights and headed back to our respective houses.

I stood over the kitchen sink, drinking a glass of water as I gazed into the yard, wondering whether or not to call the police. But what would I tell them, “Hey, I heard what sounded like my son playing outside, but there is no one there”? They would ask if I had been drinking, which, in fact, I had been earlier that night with my buddy Alan. We had been sharing the evening over a few glasses of whiskey on the back patio, enjoying the spring evening. But not only did we not go overboard on the booze; we definitely didn’t drink enough to cause my neighbor to hear things as well. I set my empty glass of water on the counter as these thoughts passed like clouds when I saw a twinkle in the yard. I looked down into the sink and realized there was only one rocks glass in the sink—Alan left his glass on the table outside. I debated leaving it, but if the glass blew over and broke, the potential for a hurt dog paw intensifies, as does my being in the doghouse. I shuffled outside to retrieve the glass, which still had a little whiskey left in it, and that is when I heard it again. I froze beneath the moon and the stars with a rocks glass in hand as I heard my son say, “Hey Mary, don’t you remember!” before breaking out into that raspy laughter.

I turned my whole body, eyes squinted, head tilted down in fear, complacent to the fact I’m about to be ripped apart by a skinwalker or some other godforsaken creature. In what must have only been a few seconds, but felt like an eternity, I slowly opened my eyes completely and saw absolutely nothing, and the world fell silent. I set the glass back on the table, grabbed my phone from my pocket, turned the flashlight back on, and stood staring at the yard, eyes racing from side to side, shivering like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. Suddenly, something moved from behind the rose bush; I heard the strange chattering sounds again, but they didn’t sound like my son this time. I shined the flashlight on the creature as it ventured out into the yard, and I was able to get a quick picture. I couldn’t believe my eyes; I was staring at a Lepus antilocapra, commonly known as a Jackalope.

So many thoughts raced through my head, but I didn’t have time to think about anything besides running for the house. This Jackalope started jumping around, kicking its feet in the air like a bucking bronco and thrashing its antlers around in what could only be interpreted as a threatening challenge. I remembered the story my great-grandfather told me about how people had to wear metal stove pipes around their legs when in Jackalope territory to avoid being gored by one of these things. As I ran for the back door, I could hear this creature laughing like my son as it sprang towards me. I slammed the screen door shut, closed the back door, and locked it: deadbolt and chain. I heard tearing and scratching on the screen door, and my dog, who normally is by me at all times, ran for her bed. This thumping, scratching, gnawing, and talking like my son in a high-pitched scratchy voice continued for a few minutes before utter silence. I stood there, whiter than a bleached marshmallow, staring at the door in shock.

Did I really just see a Jackalope? Rabbits—like real wild rabbits—can get a virus called Shope papilloma virus (SPV) that will cause keratinous horns that may look like antlers. That’s what I had to have seen, I told myself, just a poor rabbit with SPV. But I was reminded how wrong my rational mind was when I heard the laughter start up again in the backyard. I darted to the window, and there that Jackalope was, sitting on the back table with its face in that glass of whiskey. That’s when it all came back to me. The rest of the stories my great-grandfather told me about the Jackalopes. I never believed him because he was an old southerner who loved to joke around and tell stories, but clearly…this was no joke. As I watched this Jackalope guzzle the remainder of Alan’s bourbon, I recalled how my great-grandfather and his father would set out whiskey in bowls to attract jackalopes. Apparently, jackalopes love whiskey, and it was the only way you could slow one down enough to shoot it.

He also told me about how sometimes at night you could hear the jackalopes singing and talking in the distance, since they have the ability to mimic the sounds of other animals. They use this ability to confuse their predators, often throwing their voices to sound like they are behind you or talking in a familiar voice to lure you away. But sometimes, they would chat just because they wanted to. And let me tell you, it is very strange because they clearly have no idea what they are saying; they are just mirroring things they hear. Then it dawned on me; this jackalope must have been hanging around the house and heard my son talking and playing outside, which really creeped me out. The jackalope tipped the glass sideways, lapping up every bit of whiskey it could, similar to a dog with a peanut butter spoon. Once it cleaned the glass, it glanced in the direction of the house, and I could see its solid black rodent eyes lock onto the window I was observing it from. It threw its antler heavy head back and let out a “Let’s Go Blues!!!” before hopping off the table and prancing through the yard. I nodded in agreement and despite all that commotion, nobody in the house woke up. There was no way I was going to sleep after this, so I made a pot of coffee and sat staring out of the window, waiting for the sunrise while wondering who would ever believe I saw a Jackalope in St. Louis.

References:

My Great-grandfather

The legend of the horned rabbit of the West

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackalope