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There are a few variations of the Bunnyman Bridge story:
A man is sighted being arrested for murder and hops away like a bunny from the police, disappearing into the night.
A man dressed as a bunny slashes your throat if you dare cross his bridge after midnight.
A man hangs bodies by their necks under the bridge as he feasts on the corpses of bunny rabbits.
A half-bunny, half-man lives under the bridge. More sad than scary.
Everyone has their own version of the myth, and all are equally disturbing,
Located about half an hour outside of D.C., this is the bridge that pop culture turned into a nightmare. Naturally, I had to check it out.
I drove with a few friends in the middle of the night—as one does—to the dark, frightening bridge. I parked on its bordering street and we all retreated on foot to catch a glimpse of the fabled Bunnyman.
I took the lead, wearing my bravest face as a facade to my true fear: being straight-up murdered by an actual human person. Or, maybe not fully human. Maybe bunny-human.
It’s a small bridge for sure, but in the impending blackness that the night asserted, it looked like a never-ending tunnel.
“Okay guys, I’m starting to get freaked out.. I— I’m going back to the car,” said the friend who would die first if this were a horror flick.
“All by yourself? That’s how he’ll get ya!” I mocked.
“Yeah fucking right. You guys are assholes. I’ll meet you later.”
“Suit yourself,” I chimed as I tossed them the keys.
Their shaky, scared hands couldn’t hold on to the keys, which dropped to the ground. I got a giggle out of it. What a scaredy cat.
…And then there were two.
I took the lead again, sure of myself that I wouldn’t see a damn thing under this actually stupid, probably regular bridge.
As we walked under it, I looked back and could tell that we were completely alone in the dark. There’s no way that anyone could see us, so, as teenagers do, we started making out against the white cement of the tunnel wall. Why anyone was threatened by this perfect makeout point was quite a laugh to me.
“We should get back to the car. They might be getting worried.” I said.
And as teenagers do, we quickly ended things and began to walk back. As soon as we arrived under the orange glow of the nearest street light, we stopped holding hands and played it cool.
We got back to the car to find our friend pacing, angry, terrified.
“…You guys seriously left me here to make out under the bridge? You really are assholes.”
“We weren’t!” I fibbed. “We were just looking for the Bunnyman. I think I heard him hopping about.”
“…I could see you guys. You left your fucking flashlight on the whole time.” They noted.
“What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t even bring one,” I said.
“Bullshit. You guys were making out right against the wall. Plain as day,” they said angrily.
“No, really. We didn’t bring a flashlight,” I said as I turned out my pockets, and held my hands up in defense.
“But I could see you. In the light,” they said.
“We were in the dark, dude. What are you saying?” I asked.
“I saw it. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. It was there, I saw it.”
“Listen, nobody was there but us. It was pitch black. I’m telling you.” I said forcefully. I needed them to believe me. I didn’t want something so ridiculous—an urban legend? about a bunnyman?—to create tension on an otherwise perfect night.
“Stop messing with me.”
That shiver, you know the one, the one that starts in your stomach and rolls up to your spine?
It seemed like we all felt it in unison.
“Can we please get the hell out of here?”
Enough said. I hopped in my seat and turned the key, then drove away from the tunnel, looking back in the rearview mirror while considering this newfound fear.
I still have no idea what the light was, or if somebody was there. Even though I had my eyes closed, you can still sense light through your eyelids. But I didn’t see anything. I didn’t sense anything.
Had there been someone, something, I would have seen it… wouldn’t I?
We don’t talk about the light at the end of the tunnel.
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