"Do those names sound familiar to you at all?"
The bright colors that made up the room did nothing to ease the coldness in the man's chest. He'd been coming here for months, yet no progress had been made in why he was acting so strange. His girlfriend bitched about how ever since he'd taken a new night job at a mall, he'd reverted to the same shy silence that she'd known him for back in her high school years.
She didn't count on him cracking and bursting into a tearful nervous fit over malfunctioning animatronics. Animatronics that didn't even exist at the job he had now.
She insisted on therapy, or else she would leave him. Thinking back now, he wished he'd just broken up with her right then and there, but regardless, he agreed to therapy to fix... whatever this was. Instead he was getting barraged with a list of names he'd never known before.
"For the last time, I don't know those names! We've been through this before, I just want to get some help with these fucking hallucinations!"
"I understand that you're having a hard time with these visions," the therapist cooly said, leaning back in his big leather chair, "but unless you work with me on this, I won't be able to help you clear up the fog that currently blocks your mind."
The man groaned and placed his head in his hands. This was bullshit, he said to himself. He took that job at that family joint back in 1993, and two years later, when he finally felt great enough to go back to night shift, all mental hell breaks loose. Shadows in the corners seemed to grow and contort into twisted forms. Odd sounds grew louder and more threatening as he patrolled the mall.
But worst of all were the hallucinations.
He knew they weren't really there. He KNEW it in his bones. But still, as if they were in the same room with him, as if he were back in that small, dark security office... He saw those mechanical abominations rush at him with intent to hurt him. To kill him.
He was supposed to be done with that shit. But no, here he was with this old guy that acted like he knew what he was going through. It pissed him off to no end.
"I'm sorry, but I don't get why I need to know those names. I don't know them, so WHY are you bringing them up like they pertain to me somehow?!"
"... How much were you told of the pizzeria's history, Mike?"
"Huh?"
"Its' history, Mr. Schmidt. How much were you told about it?"
"Uhh..." The question certainly threw him for a loop. What did he know? All he knew was that those damn animatronics were murderous shits that made every night a living hell for him. Quirky my ass, he scoffed. Quirky enough to brutally damage a child and cause the loss of their brain's frontal lobe! "Well... I know there was an incident in '87 where a kid got hurt by one of the animatronics, but that's really about it..."
"Then you don't know about it being supposedly haunted?"
Mike's face took on a look of shock, before morphing into that of disbelief. "I- fucking christ, don't tell me you actually think- Haunted? You actually think that place is HAUNTED?"
The therapist merely shrugged. "It was a rumor that I'd heard from my niece a while back. She used to work there back in the 1980's, and told me one night while remembering her younger days that the place gained a reputation for being haunted before it closed back then."
"But do you actually believe it? You're supposed to be the sane one here, not me! You can't honestly believe that that place was haunted by something, right?"
"I can't say for sure... But I do know that there's far worse that happened there than just the 1987 incident."
"How do you know for sure?"
"Believe me when I say this; you know the fear of tricks of the mind, but there are those out there that know a much worse fear."
"But they weren't-"
"And until you learn what that fear is, we will be unable to progress. But you must be willing to open your mind, willing to understand that the events of the past can definitely affect you now, even without you having the slightest idea."
Author's Notes: EYYYY. So I'll admit, the last thing I planned on writing was a FNAF fic. (Go ahead and look at my fic history on here; it'll tell you that I'm the least equipped for this job.) And yet, here I am, writing this... thing. But unfortunately, my first time with ordering and drinking alcohol (praise be to margaritas!) wound up kickstarting an odd thought process in which I wanted to read a fic that I don't know if it exists. I could wade through all the shipping fics, but I'd rather not, and even if I wanted to, it's kind-of impossible. Because character filters are stupid.
Part of this is inspired by a picture I saw long ago through my knee-deep exposure to it on Tumblr, and unfortunately I don't know who did it or how to find it again, so hey, let's just make our own shit, right? But at the same time, I don't know how long this will run, or if it will be liked at all (because this chapter is shorter than any other starting chapter/one-shot I've done before? UM), so I'll leave that up to you guys as to whether you'll like it or not. Mind you, I'm not active in the fandom at all (I managed to watch most of Markiplier's LPs on the games save for FNAF2, which I skipped because for some reason I just did not watch it; all I know is Balloon Boy is a dick, and that Mark needs to punch him 10x more than usual), so a lot of what may happen or be canonically correct is gleaned straight from the FNAF Wiki and TV Tropes because I CAN'T LEAVE THAT SITE ALONE GUYS. HALP.)
But that's all aside. If you liked this small bit, leave a review, show some love, and maybe I can keep this going? I can't guarantee a regular update schedule if I do continue it (it'd make three full stories I'm working on), but that doesn't mean I can't multitask, so I can at least try my best!