"Hm. I don't remember that."
Ford wanted to be frustrated, to throw his hands up in defeat, to snap at his brother. But he had to be sure that Stan was messing with him this time.
A few weeks ago, he'd thought Stan was joking. It didn't help that he'd been passively curious about the tale for thirty years now (really, chewed his way out of the trunk of a car? How did the mechanics of that scenario work?). Stan had finally remembered it—or, at least, remembered bits and pieces of it, enough to put the story together. Three sentences in, their temporary deckhand/guide entered the Stan o' War II's cabin, looking as if he'd been dragged from the ocean. He informed them of the state of the rigging and the weather and the set navigational course, and then disappeared to change into dry clothes. Ford returned to his brother, expecting to hear the rest of his memory. Sheepish, Stan told him he'd forgotten already. It took Ford far too long to realize that Stan wasn't joking.
Ford frowned. Until Stan tipped his hand, he'd have to treat it like any other lost memory.
"Did you remember it earlier?" he prodded, patient.
"Huh?"
"About Louisiana. You brought it up earlier; did you remember it then?"
Stan only blinked. He sat back against the headboard, mindlessly fiddling with his harmonica. "What about Louisiana?"
"You said something about being banned from Louisiana, Mardi Gras in, um, 1975…?" Usually, these little prompts were enough, when the lapses were short. It could only have been a couple of hours since they encountered the anomalous site, surely Stan would remember.
He shook his head. "Nope. I got nothin'." After another moment of consideration, he smirked. "But I do remember an incident in 1978 that may or may not have gotten me banned from the state."
Ford balked.
Stan burst into laughter, unable to contain his amusement any longer.
"Stanley! That isn't funny!" Ford flopped against the back of his chair, exasperated. "How am I supposed to know when you actually don't remember something?"
"Yeesh, Sixer, lighten up. It's a joke." Stan smirked, nonchalance personified.
When Ford made to respond, their cell phone's chime drowned out his protests. Stan fumbled with the device, only barely managing to answer the call. "Yello?" He paused. "Afton?" Recognition lit his eyes. "Oh, yeah, sure, from the pizzeria. What's the word?"
Ford flew to his brother's side, pushing himself close to listen, though still hardly able to overhear.
"Really?"
The voice murmured from the speaker; Ford could only discern a couple of words.
"We can probably swing that. When should we meet?"
"Stanley, give me the phone," Ford hissed, trying to grab the device.
Maneuvering to keep the phone out of his brother's reach, Stan continued the conversation without consulting his brother. "No problem. Let me get a pen—" He snatched a pen and a scrap of paper from his brother's pocket. "Okay, go ahead."
"Stan, what's going—?"
Stan batted Ford's hand away. "Uh-huh, I got it. We'll be there—bye." He stuffed the phone back into his pocket.
Ford immediately launched into a tirade of questions. "What happened? What did he say? Where are we going? Can we get into that building or not?"
Stifling his grin, Stan kept his expression innocent. "What building?"
"Stanley!"
The house Stan brought them to looked older than most of the downtown area, built before the corporations moved in. It sat just off the one highway that ran through Hurricane, across from a strip mall that hadn't been there even ten years ago. Most of the shops seemed generic and inconsequential enough, though the largest and brightest by far was Circus Baby's Pizza World—a clear competitor of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. Odd that the town would have two child-oriented pizzerias.
"Looks like a place Mabel would like," Stan joked. If anyone in the world wore brighter colors or more glitter than the restaurant's clown mascot, it would be their great niece.
"Maybe we'll bring her here over the summer," Ford said, inattentive. The anomaly tracker beeped evenly; based on Ford's expression, it shouldn't be. "This isn't the same reading from earlier…curious…"
Stan peered over his brother's shoulder. The device showed a red dot on a black grid. How Ford could tell it was in any way different, he didn't know. He allowed Ford to fiddle with the anomaly tracker for a few moments, until the midwinter chill sent a shudder down his spine.
"Okay, Poindexter, put your toy away." Nudging Ford, he gestured toward the house. "You wanna find out about the other place, right?"
Ford begrudgingly silenced his anomaly tracker. "Yes, though you've yet to explain exactly what it is we'll be doing here." He stowed the tracker in his pocket. "Meeting with William, I assume, but beyond that, you've been uncharacteristically silent on the matter."
"You're not wrong." He led his brother to the door, knocking. "Bill didn't explain much—"
"Please don't call him that, Stanley."
"Right. Sorry." Shifting, Stan rubbed at the back of his neck. A thought rolled on tip of his tongue, but it died to allow a more insipid one to pass. "Man, I need to get a haircut. There's no excuse to have a mullet twice in your life."
Ford forced a weak chuckle. "Does it count if you can't remember the first time?"
Caught off-guard, Stan couldn't help the barking laughter that tore from his throat. He barely managed to get himself under control by the time William answered the door.
"Sorry about the wait—come in, come in." The young man ushered the twins into the house. Inside, the warmth was immediate, courtesy of the wood stove in the adjacent sitting room. "I was just putting the kettle on; tea should be ready in a few minutes." He brought the twins into the sitting room and indicated the large sofa. "Please, sit; I'll grab Uncle William." As he walked off, he shook his head, murmuring about him "always tinkering" with "those things" in the garage.
Left alone, the Pines shrugged and sat on the sofa. It was old, upholstered in a warm twill; built sturdily, but still conforming to them when they sat.
"Ma had a couch like this, didn't she?" Stan's confusion tried to hide behind a joking tone.
Ford nodded, a light smile tugging at the corner of his lip. "Yes, in the living room, right in front of the TV." A quick glance around the wood-paneled room confirmed his brother's suspicions. "The whole room is strangely similar. Seems Mr. Afton hasn't updated his décor in decades."
The tension in Stan's body relaxed at the affirmation. "Least I won't be wondering about that instead of paying attention."
"You won't pay attention, regardless—"
William's voice carried from down the hall. "I wish you would put a heater in, at least, if you're going to spend all your time there." The responding voice was soft, nearly inaudible until its owner entered the sitting room.
"…for that. It's plenty warm." William's companion, perhaps twice his age, walked with distinct purpose. Even as he sat down, he moved decisively, almost stiffly. The Afton familial resemblance, unlike the Pines', was subtle: the green hue of their irises, the subtle upturn of their noses, the odd grace of their wrists—details only distinguishable to an attentive scrutiny. Though he held a genial disposition, smiled pleasantly, rested with an ease diametrically opposed to the way he moved, the elder Afton exuded an air of exhaustion. Sleepless nights had hollowed and drawn his face. His eyes, however, were alive, somehow desolate and determined, somber and thrilled. This was a man on the verge of a breakdown.
The Pines knew too well the sort of mania that drove a man like this.
"My nephew tells me that you gentlemen have an interest in my restaurant?" He spoke in dulcet tones, his accent softening the harsh sounds of the consonants. "I must say, Mr. Pines, Mr. Pines, it's been an age since anyone has shown curiosity about that place."
"Yes, Mr. Afton." Adjusting his glasses, Ford leaned forward. "You see, my brother and I are researchers of the supernatural—" A light flickered in Mr. Afton's eyes "—and we think there's some sort of anomaly in your restaurant."
"To be frank, Mr. Pines, there is. Perhaps, rather, there are." Mimicking Ford's movement, he too leaned in, conspiratorially. "There are ghosts in the machines."
The kettle whistled from the kitchen.
"Billy, please, the tea." Mr. Afton glanced to his nephew.
William exited the room with a frown, saying nothing.
His uncle tutted. "My nephew doesn't believe, but he knows the rumors and how superstitious the people of Hurricane can be."
"It is haunted, then?" Ford clarified, excited. "The restaurant?"
"The restaurant? No, though rumors will say otherwise. It's the machines themselves—the animatronics."
Stan groaned before he could stop himself. "Haunted animatronics?"
Mr. Afton mistook the meaning of Stan's outburst. "It's odd, yes, but surely not something beyond your realm of expertise?"
"I've punched a few animatronics in my day—" Ford pinched the bridge of his nose, grumbling to himself as his brother carried on "—and none of them have been exactly pleasant." Stan folded his arms with a scowl. "Those things are jerks."
"I know a few people who may be inclined to agree with you."
In the ensuing pause, William returned, carrying a tray of tea paraphernalia. He set the tray on the table, took one of the cups (one that seemed to be made up already), and sat in the chair beside his uncle's.
Ford took one of the cups, thanking William, and returned his attention to Mr. Afton. The anticipation glimmered in his eyes. "You said 'animatronics,' plural. How many animatronics are in there? How long have they been there, for that matter? Are they still functional? Do you know what's haunting them? Are you sure they're haunted—?"
Stan grabbed his brother's shoulder. "Easy, Sixer."
The elder Afton smiled. "Yes, there are multiple animatronics locked in that location; Billy was kind enough to ensure that the four of them were still there."
"They've been in there since the location closed," William added. "Those doors haven't been open in twenty years."
Ford withdrew a junk notebook and began scribbling information on the next available page. "What closed the restaurant originally?"
"A health code violation." William glanced at his uncle, as if asking permission. With his blessing, William continued. "Following some…incidents…"
Despite his better judgement, Stan held his tongue. He could recognize a code word for murder when he heard it—and based on Ford's hesitant expression, so could he.
"They were unrelated," William insisted with strange vehemence. "Back then, the building's security came courtesy of an outside vendor—a different one than we use now. Apparently, they weren't very vigorous with their psychiatric evaluations…One of the daytime security guards was implicated in the disappearance of five children at that location."
"Implicated?" Stan repeated, not hiding his incredulity. Shouldn't someone have at least been tried for a bunch of kids going missing like that?
"Charges were never brought against him—insufficient evidence, I believe. They never did find the culprit." William sipped at his tea, taking time to assemble the next sentence in his head before speaking. "There was also a problem with one of the animatronics…Someone was…hospitalized…"
"It was an accident," Mr. Afton clarified. "The spring locks didn't lock as well as we thought. They got wet, and, when they released and the endoskeleton returned to its proper positioning, they crushed what was left within. Bone and all."
"Wait, what—?"
"Spring locks?" Ford's inquiry readily overshadowed his brother's. Either he hadn't heard the last comment or he wasn't interested.
"A proprietary design of Henry's, quite an impressive little device. Early designs allowed the animatronics to function in two ways: as traditional animatronics, or as mascot suits." An old pride lifted the elder Afton's spirit visibly. "They were brilliant. A bit hefty, but quite practical. The spring locks held the endoskeleton at bay, allowing enough room for a performer to fit inside the suits."
The pen never ceased its scribbling; Ford's noise of comprehension could barely be heard over it.
"That location closed for the investigations and never reopened," William said in summary. "We haven't had any restaurants under the Freddy Fazbear name open in Hurricane since then, but Uncle William thinks it's time to open the doors again."
"If you were interested in investigating the rumors, I could see my way toward allowing you access to the location," Mr. Afton offered.
Ford barely contained his excitement.
