Rabbits(5)

It was at a party in Lakewood, Washington.



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Growing up in Olympia, Washington, just about an hour south of Seattle, I’d heard the stories about Polybius: the video arcade game that allegedly killed some kids in Oregon. But this mysterious game was different, more enigmatic, and perhaps even more sinister. Like Polybius, this game had whispers surrounding it that included men in gray suits and potential mind-altering consequences for participation. But unlike Polybius, nobody was actually talking about this game—at least not until I attended that party.

Bill and Madeline Connors were close family friends who hosted a Fourth of July celebration every year. They had two daughters, Annie and Emily—one and three years older than me respectively.

The Connors sisters had the best taste in music, and they always wore the coolest clothes—a lot of belts, and a lot of hats. At this particular party, they were both wearing tall, striped Dr. Seuss–looking hats that they’d bought at what they assured me was the hippest store on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles. I took their word for it. At the time, I’d never been farther south than Oakland, to attend sailing camp.

While our parents were in the backyard playing a drunken game of lawn darts, I entered the house to get a Coke (something I was never allowed to drink at home) and overheard Annie and Emily talking.

They were huddled in front of the family computer staring at something on the screen.

“Did you figure out how to load EverQuest, or what?” Annie asked.

“I have something better,” Emily replied, bringing up a screen I recognized. I had a pretty clear view from where I was hiding, just inside the kitchen doorway. They were looking at a Usenet newsgroup.

Annie leaned in to get a better look. “What’s alt dot binaries dot games?”

“Gaming group,” Emily replied, striking a few keys with expert precision.

“What’s binaries?”

“Be quiet.”

“Zelda pictures?”

“Not quite.”

“Another dancing baby?”

“Just listen.” Emily gently placed her hand over her sister’s mouth and pressed the space bar.

A video file started to play. It appeared to be a clip from an old wildlife documentary. The voice on the screen was talking about something called the imperial woodpecker.

“So what? It’s a fucking woodpecker. Let’s go back outside. Luke Milligan is here,” Annie said, tugging at her sister’s sleeve.

“Luke Milligan’s an asshole. He tried to put his hand up Nina’s shirt in chem.”

“Really?” Annie was clearly disappointed.

“Besides, it’s not just any woodpecker,” Emily said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, look at them all. There must be at least fifty woodpeckers in those last three scenes.”

“Yeah, so what? They’re big?”

“Yeah, they’re big, but that’s not it. This documentary was made in 1989, and the last reported sighting of an imperial woodpecker was in 1956.”

“Whoa.” Annie leaned in closer to the screen. “What does it mean?”

“It’s Rabbits,” Emily said, and shut down the computer.

“Rabbits?” Annie’s eyes were huge. She was fascinated.

So was I.

There was something about the way Emily had said the word “Rabbits” that felt like a secret—like something adults knew that children couldn’t possibly understand.

Emily looked around to make sure nobody was listening. The angle of the kitchen doorway kept me out of her line of sight. She lowered her voice. “It’s a secret game.”

Annie stared at the image of a woodpecker frozen on the screen. “What does it mean?”

“It means I’m going to be playing,” Emily said, matter-of-fact.

“How do you play?”

“It’s kind of complicated.”

“Like how?”

“Like we’re supposed to find things.”

“What things?”

“Things like patterns, discrepancies. Things that don’t make sense.”

“Patterns?” Annie said. She was doing her best to follow the conversation, but she clearly had no idea what the hell her sister was talking about.

Emily took a deep breath and collected her thoughts before continuing. “Okay, so, there’s a nature documentary released by a company that no longer exists, if it actually ever did.”

I stood there in the kitchen, completely enthralled, as Emily got into some pretty wild theories about that documentary.

The gist of it was pretty simple. There was a name listed in the end credits that didn’t have an accompanying occupation like makeup artist, boom op, best boy, or key grip.

One name was just hanging there, all alone on the screen—an “orphan name,” I think Emily called it. She told Annie she’d overheard a discussion about this and had brought it to the others on her gaming forum. They performed some numerology and math involving the letters of that person’s name, and eventually found something called The Night Station.

“What’s The Night Station?” Annie asked.

“That’s what we’re going to find out. Come on.”