A depressing silence filled the air in the prison cell that Sunday night, the cracked, cobweb-ridden concrete walls seemingly getting closer and closer together. Eric Collins, convicted of murdering an eleven-year-old with his currently missing accomplice, Daniel Franklin, had only been in jail for a month, but it seemed like a lifetime. As he sat on his cot, full of regret and shame, he couldn't help but notice the chill that had passed through the room. There were no open windows, and the door at the end of the hall remained closed. So why, he wondered, did he suddenly feel so cold?

"Eric?"

The voice echoed in the small enclosure, barely a whisper, yet he heard it as clear as a bell. Nobody else seemed to notice it, not even the guards. Was he finally going off the deep end?

"Don't be alarmed. I'm just here to visit you."

He shook his head rapidly, refusing to respond out loud. He was definitely losing his marbles.

"Look at me." The voice was above him now.

Breathing heavily, Eric dared to glance at the ceiling. There was nothing there but cobwebs and silverfish. Finally, unable to remain quiet any longer, he spoke. "Who are you?"

Whoever was talking to him did not reply. Instead, they just laughed, distorted and demented. Small drops of sweat formed on Eric's forehead as he frantically looked around the cell. "Who's there?"

"Oh, Eric, think about it. Who else would visit you at this ungodly hour?"

"Tell me who you are!" The guards outside were looking at him as if he were crazy, but he didn't care.

"Who would be able to get past security and into your head? Nobody I can think of." It laughed again. "Nobody but, say... a ghost."

It was as if something had clicked in Eric's head. Recognition flickered in his eyes as he realized where he had heard that voice before: crying in the alley next to Fredbear's, begging to be spared.

"Jonathan."

A small child appeared in the corner of the room, semi-transparent and covered in fresh blood, with a terrifying grin on his face. "Yes, it's me."

"How did you... what are..." He stood up on the bunk and backed up against the wall as the child moved closer and closer to him. "But- but you're dead..."

"Thanks to you, as I might recall." His eyes, turned completely black with white pupils the size of pinpricks, blazed with hatred. "Your friend Daniel was kind enough to disclose your location before he met his... tragic demise."

"What did you do!?" Eric blurted out before he could stop himself.

Jonathan just stared at him, his sinister smile even wider now, and continued advancing towards the trembling prisoner. A silvery thread, seemingly coming out of thin air, wrapped itself around his arms, binding his wrists together tightly.

It looked as if there was no way out. Eric struggled to break free of his bonds, but it was no use. Another string snaked its way up from the floor and slowly closed around his neck. "Please... please don't kill me..."

"Oh, how the tables have turned. I suppose you'd find the irony amusing as well if it wasn't you on the receiving end this time." Jonathan sat down calmly on the bed. "Mr. Collins, you know how impressionable young children can be, don't you?"

"Jonathan, please..."

"Kids like us just follow the example adults like you set for them, and I'm afraid I just don't know how to be merciful. It's a bit too late to beg for your life, I'd say. What a shame." Without warning, the boy whirled around and grabbed the string on Eric's neck, forcing him to his knees. The binding on his wrists had tightened, cutting into his flesh and soaking up the blood until the thread had turned completely red.

"Now it's my turn. I want to have a little fun with you, Eric."

Now he was moving against his will, a passenger in his own body. He held out his hands, and to his horror, Jonathan pulled a knife out of his back pocket.

"What are you going to do with me, you psycho?" Eric spat, having nothing left to lose. "Cut me open? Choke me to death?"

His eyes widened in shock when instead of stabbing him, the ghost placed the blade on his upturned palms. He tried to grab it and cut himself loose, but he couldn't move.

"I thought we've been over this. I don't know how to be merciful."

"What do you mean?" There was no reply. "Jonathan?"

"Why would I cut you open, Eric, if you can do it for me?"

"Wha-" His hands closed around the knife, and he realized what Jonathan had meant. He whimpered in fright as he brought the sharp point closer and closer to his chest, desperately trying to stop moving.

"And now, I'll just sit back and enjoy the show, my little puppet. Don't worry about the guards checking on you, they're all having nap-time."

Eric held his breath and looked away, unable to close his eyes. He shivered at the first jolt of pain coursing through his body and felt the cold knife burying itself in his skin.

"Now, cut through your bones and show me what your guts look like. I've been waiting for this, so give me a good show."

The last thing he heard before he blacked out was the cry of a wounded child.