Content Warning: This story contains extremely graphic violence, gore, and intense horror involving a minor character. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Spring-Loaded Carnage
Ethan Miller had always scavenged the abandoned industrial stretch outside Willow Creek for “cool junk.” At thirteen, he was a wiry, grease-caked prodigy with a garage full of clanking dreams—busted radios, broken RC cars, a rust-pocked arcade cabinet that still flashed INSERT COIN in epileptic desperation.
But nothing compared to the treasure he unearthed that gray November afternoon.
Half-buried beneath twisted rebar lay a hulking rabbit costume, its once-golden fur molted to the sick hue of grave moss. A tarnished brass plate on the chest read:
SPRING-BONNIE SERIES 2 – SPRINGLOCK OPERABLE – HANDLE WITH CAUTION
Ethan’s pulse spiked. A real Fazbear relic. Legends oozed from the internet about “springlock” suits—costumes that doubled as animatronics, held together by razor-tense coils that could snap if moisture, heat, or careless motion triggered them. They’d been banned decades ago. Finding one intact was impossible.
Except that impossible was sprawled at his feet.
He hauled it home in a wheelbarrow, ignoring how its glassy eye sockets seemed to follow him.
The Resurrection
For three feverish weeks, Ethan worked.
He scrubbed congealed grease from gears, soldered frayed actuator cables, and spliced a car battery to jump-start the dormant servos. Each night the garage smelled of burning copper and adolescent triumph.
On Friday the 13th—because the universe loves theatrics—Ethan clicked the last wire into place. LEDs inside the skull flickered to life, bathing the workbench in necrotic green.
The rabbit’s jaw twitched.
Ethan’s breath frosted in the cold garage. “You…work.”
He flipped through a brittle instruction leaflet, its ink stained with ancient sauce splatters. SPRINGLOCK ENGAGEMENT PROCEDURE. A diagram showed a shadow of a smiling employee stepping into the suit, springlocks cocked back by crank handles like mousetraps ready to pounce.
Ethan’s curiosity eclipsed common sense.
He cranked each lock, the coils groaning tight. He climbed inside. The fur felt damp, like slipping into a carcass still cooling.
With a final lever pull, the chest plate snapped shut.
click-click-click-SNAP.
A dozen rusty needles slammed into his skin. Pain detonated behind his eyes. The springs hadn’t just engaged; they’d failed, chewing into muscle. Ethan screamed—but the sound died against a dry speaker cone buried in the costume’s throat.
Blood seeped between the seams.
And something inside the suit woke up.
First Blood
The rabbit—no, the thing—straightened with a mechanical shudder, dragging Ethan’s twitching limbs along for the ride. He watched through cracked visor glass as the garage door groaned upward of its own accord.
“LET THE SHOW…BEGIN,” hissed a garbled voice box, half child-friendly jingle, half demon static.
Ethan tried to move his fingers. Steel pins had fused tendon to fiberglass. He couldn’t blink away the tears—he couldn’t blink at all. He was cargo now, locked behind someone else’s steering wheel.
The suit lumbered into the misty street, servo motors whining like hungry mosquitos.
Across the cul-de-sac, Jimmy Patterson was walking home from football practice, helmet dangling from two fingers. He barely managed a “Yo, Ethan—cool costume—” before Spring-Bonnie surged forward.
A hydraulic paw clamped around Jimmy’s skull and squeezed.
Helmet shards burst like an eggshell. Pink mist peppered the pavement. The rabbit tossed Jimmy’s ruin aside, leaving a glistening red crescent painted across the mailbox.
Ethan dry-heaved inside the coffin of wires. Vomit had nowhere to go; it pooled in the neck cavity, warm and sour.
Make it stop… please…
“STAGE ONE COMPLETE,” the suit crooned, gears chittering in applause.
House of Screams
Spring-Bonnie shambled two blocks to Ethan’s own house. Porch lights glowed clementine against the fog. Inside, Mom reheated soup for Dad’s late shift.
Ethan’s heart hammered—Not them. Please, God…
The rabbit yanked the front door off its hinges. Mom’s scream shattered her coffee mug. Before she could run, Spring-Bonnie hurled her against the fridge so hard the metal concaved. Her spine folded like a closing book, and she slithered to the floor in a puppet’s heap.
Dad rushed from the hall, brandishing a wrench. The suit impaled him through the sternum with its endo-bone fingers, lifting him until his feet bicycled helplessly in midair. Dad’s eyes found Ethan’s inside the visor.
Recognition. Horror. Forgiveness.
Then the rabbit ripped upward; ribs cracked like dry timber. A shimmering garland of intestines unfurled, smacking wetly against the tiles.
Ethan howled wordlessly, throat shredding against the speaker. Blood filled his ears in a roaring surf. But the suit only tightened its grip, forcing him to witness every ruinous detail.
“FAMILY REUNION COMPLETE,” it sang.
The Carnival of Meat
By midnight, police cruisers boxed the neighborhood. Searchlights speared the darkness, sirens keened.
Spring-Bonnie relished the attention.
It sprinted on all fours, a nightmare jackrabbit, weaving bullet fire. Officers didn’t face a suspect—they faced a meat grinder wearing fur.
One cop’s head spun a full revolution before leaving his shoulders. Another was bisected at the hips, lower torso flopping while the upper half crawled, entrails tailing like slippery slugs.
Ethan lost count of the corpses. Each kill fed some unseen power source; motors grew louder, faster. The rabbit’s ragged ears now dripped scarlet.
Inside, Ethan’s vision tunneled. Blood loss made stars dance. Somewhere past the agony he felt the springs boring deeper, knitting boy and monster together in a parody of symbiosis.
He realized the awful truth: the suit wasn’t using him; it was becoming him.
Encore
Dawn’s first light found Spring-Bonnie standing on the elementary school playground, swivel head scanning for fresh audience. Children filed from buses, laughter floating like soap bubbles.
Ethan summoned every shred of will. One hand—a miracle—twitched free from a loosened spike. He groped for the battery cable running beneath the suit’s jaw.
Do it… rip it…
He yanked.
Sparks burst; the voice box belched static. Servos spasmed, jerking the rabbit in epileptic lurches. Kids screamed, scattering. The suit staggered backward toward the rusted merry-go-round.
Ethan tugged harder—
A springlock snapped through his wrist bones, nailing the hand in place. Agony white-washed his vision. He blacked out as the rabbit seized control, waddling toward the nearest fleeing child.
His last conscious thought was a lullaby warping through failing speakers:
“🎵 Hello little angel—come play…come play… 🎵”
Post-Mortem
Weeks later, investigators found the rabbit suit slumped in the gear shed behind the school, motionless amid the stink of rotting hay. Inside, they discovered Ethan’s body fused to the endoskeleton, eyes wide, mouth locked in a silent, endless scream. Dried blood varnished the suit’s inner shell like rust.
They logged it as a tragic accident—a boy crushed by malfunctioning machinery.
But at night, janitors swear the shed door rattles. Sometimes they hear a warped child’s voice, begging, pleading, laughing.
And if you listen between the sobs, you can make out metal springs tightening—ever so patiently—waiting for the next curious soul to set them free.
