Inspired by a certain picture, I tried to locate the name of the creator and failed, I apologize for not being able to give them more exposure.
Mike shivered as he crept down the hall. The restaurant was about as well ventilated as an abandoned submarine, and the only part of it that could be considered warm was his office. Half of that warmth was created by his sweat driven panic, and the accumulative body warmth of those before him. With the doors closed off, the cold air quickly disappeared and was replaced by maddening humidity. Thus, he was quite thankful for the fan in his office, quite sure that he would have gone insane or died of dehydration without it.
The other thing he would be long dead without, is the phone. The recordings that his superior had sent him had saved his life who knows how many times. Not to mention that, it was the only human voice he had heard since starting this job. The guy who opened the restaurant never said a word, only ever once giving him a glance and the one time he had, his face had wrinkled like Mike was roadkill. Schmidt hadn't met the person who was supposed to give him his paycheck, and his neighbors back at his crummy apartment weren't the friendliest folks in town.
So the security guard had found himself responding to the nervous recording, despite himself. After he realized how dire the situation was, the mentor became his only connection to the outside world. And that was why, instead of running for the exit like a madman, and collapsing on his couch as soon as he got home, Mike was passing the stage, and entering the backroom.
"Uh, hey, do me a favor. *bang bang* Maybe sometime, uh, you could check inside those suits in the back room? *bang bang* I'm gonna to try to hold out until someone checks. Maybe it won't be so bad. *bang bang* Uh, I-I-I-I always wondered what was in all those empty heads back there."
That call had been disturbing enough to rattle him, and Mike had made it through the night, always a hair's distance away from death. He tried to focus on staying alive, he tried to bury the call in the back of his mind. But the golden suit that kept popping up in front of him was not helping in the least. Neither were the whispers "IT'S ME." nor the pictures of sobbing children that kept popping up on the walls outside his office, had done anything to take his mind off his impending doom or the possible death of his mentor.
When six am had finally rolled around, he had waited a couple minutes for his attackers to return to their proper places, before stepping outside the dirty office. The man who opened the doors would be here any second, so Mike bound down the hall in search of the truth. He was cut short when a cold breeze exited the darkness, forming a whistle that almost sounded like "Mikey." It's just your mind playing tricks on you buddy. It had to be, after all, the last person to ever call him "Mikey" was the bullies who used to beat him up back in sixth grade. They would always give him five seconds to run, their own sadistic etiquette (*). As he took advantage of those precious few seconds, the would mock him with taunts like "Let's play another game of Hide 'n Seek Mikey!" or "Your too fat to run like a coward, let's see if you're not too dumb to hide!"
He shivered beside the darkness, memories of sharp kicks and slimy punches unearthed. You're hungry, sleep deprived, and scared out of your wits. You need to turn around and go home. You don't belong here. He turned, fixing his gaze on a drawing of Freddy Fazbear himself. The mascot for a heartless business and concealing slaughter. He knew that it was just a drawing, and that those robots, they were probably just really dangerous machines. But in his fevered mind, the words "go home" (produced by his own conscious) somehow became EXACTLY what Freddy wanted. They want to turn me into one of them, they want me to forget about my human beings. They want me to become another monster, another part of their nightmare.
He stomped into the darkness, his boots producing splashes in the dirty rainwater which had pooled on the ancient checkered linoleum. For a brief moment he saw something out of the corner of his eye, and whipped around, flicking on his flashlight and tensing. Nothing. You jumpin' at shadows Mike. Except it was too dark for anything to cast a shadow. Calm down, the fuckbear gang is are all in their proper places, you have nothing to worry about. You're all alone.
Somehow that last thought didn't comfort him as much as expected. Another whisper, and stronger chill, one which caused him to grip his jacket close to his body. This time the whisper was dragged out, like some a sultry maiden calling him into the bedroom, but in a voice like a nails dragging across concrete. It sent horrible images deep into his psyche, and was devoid of truth or life. It mocked the very idea of life.
"Oh Miiiikeeey…."
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. He almost broke the flashlight with the force of which he was gripping it. Raising the light to shoulder height, he slashed across the inky black with the beam, and found the "EMPLOYEES ONLY" door. No turning back. Grabbing the handle, he nearly tore off the knob opening the door, and focused the beam of light on the pile of weird looking masks opposite his current position. They looked like different versions of the band, with softer eyes, cheery red cheeks and pedo smiles. God help the bastard who had to deal with those creeps.
Stepping inside, he found that it was even colder in the backroom, with twice the leaks. Everywhere he looked there were more heads, more heads, and more costumes, all of them staring at him with soulless eye holes. Yeesh, how many times have people tried to breathe life into something that was dead from the beginning?
He turned a corner and stepped in another puddle as the chillingly voice returned, sounding startlingly familiar. "Hey Mikey…*heh heh*…" He backed away, now absolutely sure that someone was speaking to him. "Wh-who's there?" Casting the beam of illumination around the room, his eyes grew in maddening terror and the truth of the nightmarish reality. There, hanging from a series of wires, lay a golden Freddy Fazbear head. But that head contained something, which was as unsettling as it was impossible. The creature before him giggled and his veins turned to ice as the flashlight slipped from his sweat saturated palm and busted against the blood coated floor.
"I found out what was in those heads Mikey…" The empty skulls glowed orange and red, and Mike shuddered in his steps, backing away from twice now revealed horror. The head, torn off of his predecessor's body judging by the spinal cord which hung from the rotting skull like a dangling spider. Blood and grey matter seeped forth from the head, and the security guard grinned, revealing a mouth full of busted, yanked, and cracked teeth, which gave Mike the impression of a veteran man killer shark. "It was joy Mike…Joy."
Mike Schmidt had never left a room with the haste which he did that night, and after slipping on the pool of blood and screaming "NO, NO, FUCK! THEY'VE GOT ME, NONONONONO! FUCK NO! FUCK NO!" he tore open the door and never looked back.
But there was a rather large being waiting for him outside, and Mike stopped dead for a moment, his sanity draining in short bursts as he stared at the black and purple Freddy. "I apologize Mr. Schmidt, but if you leave…the children will begin to cry…" Mike nearly jumped out of his skin as another voice echoed off the walls behind him, and he turned to see a rotting puppet staring at him. "You're not going anywhere motherfucker, we aren't nearly done with you…"
Mike intended to push the shadow creature to the side and bolt for the exit, but as he made contact with the mournful spirit, the world temporarily slowed down, and he crashed to the ground on the other side. Scrambling to his feet, he heard a series of deranged giggles fill the arcade as the animatronics jumped to life. "We-welcome my fr-fr-bite sized snacks-friends, to Fre-Fredbear's-Freddy Fazbear's pizza-HELL-Freddy's pizzeria!"
Mike didn't even bother to look at the grimy and gore stained singers as he passed, he could feel their black, tiny white pupil eyes watching him. The door was blown open, like a ghost was holding it open so that he might leave, and he rushed out, the phantom song playing as he jumped into his car and drove towards freedom, and the comforting sanity of his crummy apartment.
Mike never returned for his pay check, and he moved to a different town almost immediately after. For the most part the incident was pushed to the back of his mind, but it would occasionally rise to the surface, and induce panic attacks. He awoke many a time in the dead of night, with the word's "joy" echoing in his scarred mind.