Thursday, November 11, 1993
5:45am.
With fifteen minutes to six, Freddy left him alone. Mike let out a long breath. He put his arms around himself to try to keep from shaking, and to bite back any other fearful reactions. That strange deathly smell still lingered around him, and only through the sheerest willpower did he prevent his stomach from turning. The flashlight sat in his lap, where he hadn't registered until now that Freddy dropped it before leaving him alone.
You came for answers. Use this remaining time wisely.
Mike hesitantly looked to the doors on either side of him. He turned on the flashlight to examine the room. The resin microphone had been retrieved, and everything else seemed normal. Or at least, as normal as things got. Carefully, Mike approached the right door, each step calculated and quiet. A glance down the hall showed it empty, and in the bright flashlight beam, he caught the ends of some of the tables.
As he turned around, his eyes went to the desk. The monitors, trash, and stupid toy cupcake all sat where they had been before. Only one thing stood out among them:
His cigarettes.
Mike quickly grabbed the pack and shoved it into his breast pocket. He didn't care how they got there, only that he had them again. He then went to the left door and checked down the hall. Even from here, he barely glimpsed the closed curtains at Pirate Cove, saw two more of the tables, and heard no footsteps.
Were they...going to let him pass?
He briefly recalled yesterday morning, where Bonnie, Freddy, and Chica literally pointed him towards the bathrooms where the music played behind that wall. Tonight, Freddy let him go with moments to spare. He had to trust they would leave him alone. That he had time to investigate before Waylon or anyone else got in.
The thought brought his hand to his pocket, where Mike searched for the key Puppet left him. He made a quick check around the office for any kind of lock, and only found the desk, chair, monitors, and walls around him.
Nothing here, so where…?
The first locked thing that came to mind was the manager's office. After making a quick, careful check down the west hallway to ensure Foxy wasn't lurking or threatening to run, Mike slid into the east hall, and headed down for the only place in the entire building he hadn't been yet. As he approached the door, he shot a glance into the dining room.
Everything looked ready for the next day. The first glimmers of dark blue morning light broke through the front windows. It allowed him to pick out the tables with their perfect party hats, the closed curtains at Pirate Cove, and three figures onstage. Their silhouettes showed them poised and ready to entertain what few children might come today. Mike ran the flashlight over the room. The animatronics stayed in place, all of them with that lazy expression that came with their daytime programming, though he knew they were still active in night mode for a little longer. Freddy once more held his microphone.
Mike then turned to his the left, where the prize counter and the Puppet's box sat. They remained just as still as everything else in the room. He stepped back towards the manager's office, not daring to turn his back on them. He shifted his stance to unlock the door while still surveying the dining room in the corner of his eye.
As he hoped, the key fit and turned with ease. Mike's breath hitched a bit as the door gave way.
The office was tiny and cramped, with a desk shoved to the right and a filing cabinet in the back. The desk chair took up most of the floor space, with just enough leverage for someone get into the office and sit comfortably, but not do much else. Mike heard the tick of a clock to his left, and saw the edges of paper on the walls. He ran his flashlight over the room. The ticking sound came from an old Freddy clock. An old printer and an even older computer hoarded most of the desk space, and the papers, at a quick glance, were things like employee schedules and charts for things he didn't understand or care about.
Mike shot a glance behind him to verify the animatronics stayed put, then stepped into the room. He shut the door behind him, but left it open a few inches so he could listen for them. The tiny room smelled of ink, paper, and the remnants of what he presumed to be Waylon's awful cologne.
He shifted around the desk chair, then pushed it behind him. If anything, nothing could get in here without moving it, and that granted him a small shred of security. Mike checked his watch and noted he had twelve minutes before 6am. He then started at the top of the filing cabinet and worked his way down.
Top drawer: copies of legal forms, blank employee contracts, and other necessities. Second drawer: budget reports and other boring paperwork. Third drawer: employee records.
Mike's heart beat faster as he quickly thumbed through them. The dividers marked the files by year, with the folders between the dividers organized alphabetically. He ignored the ones up front and checked to see if they went as far back as...yes.
Six years ago. Further, even, but he paid that little heed, save for the fact that the further back he went, the more dust seemed to settle. Mike blew some of it away to better cover his tracks. While the state of the files showed Waylon never looked beyond the recent years, it was best to be as discreet as possible.
He thumbed through the files until he found one that caught his interest. Mike quickly pulled it out and opened it. He shone the flashlight on the papers inside, greeted with the basics first: name, address, job title, salary, all neatly typed up and stapled to a copy of a driver's license. Mike quickly turned to the next page to a copy of the employee contract and the original application. His heart panged as he looked over the familiar handwriting on the form, and the signature at the bottom of the contract. He bit his lip, forcing back emotion as he pushed them aside to the papers after it.
At the dismissal form, a note of failure to arrive for the 9am shift marked at 7:35am, and the signature of one Shirley Reid.
Mike's hands shook as he glared at the paper.
"You fucking liar," he hissed.
After taking a moment to commit it to memory, Mike put the file back, then rifled through the rest, looking for Reid, Shirley. He found nothing under 1987, 1988, or anything up to the current year. Frustrated, he found himself going back further.
He found Shirley's file shoved in the back. He discovered it more easily than expected due it being less dusty than the others this far back. After carefully slipping it from its place, Mike quickly peeked at her file. It showed she had been the head manager at both this establishment, and the one that shut down in 1987...and that she resigned on April 14, 1988, only a few months after the incident.
"Wonder why," Mike muttered. "Felt some guilt there, Shirley?"
He glanced at his watch.
5:54am.
Only six minutes left, not that he needed them. Mike started to slide Shirley's file back where he found it, when one of the folders behind it caught his eye. While the rest of the folders showed a last name, then a first, this one simply said, "Fredbear."
Fredbear? he wondered. Is that Freddy's old name?
Mike blew away some of the dust, then carefully slid the folder out. Upon opening it, he found a deed for a place called, "Fredbear's Family Diner," some legal documents, and a contract dated 1972 negotiating Fredbear, LLC, to become Fazbear Entertainment. As he looked over the contract, something slid out of the folder. Mike quickly grabbed for it, and found himself holding a folded piece of paper much thinner than the contract and legal documents. It crumpled easily in his grasp.
Newsprint.
He set the folder down and held up his finding. The newsprint had been carefully folded to keep it from being seen on an initial glance inside the folder. Mike gently worked out the creases, and found a piece of yellowed note paper underneath. Someone scrawled a phone number along with a reminder to, "Call Booker Teddy Co."
Mike set the note back in the folder and looked at the article he held in his hand.
WRECKED CAR FOUND IN CITY OUTSKIRTS; DRIVER BELIEVED TO BE MISSING.
It was dated June 15, 1966. As Mike started the article, which was more of a footnote than anything, he noticed he held not one, but two clipped articles. The second one was much larger, and its headline read:
WIDOW OPENS RESTAURANT TO HONOR MISSING HUSBAND.
Forgoing the first article for a moment, Mike decided to start with the second one. The front page showed a black and white photo of a smiling woman with long, dark hair held back with a headband. She held a portrait up beside her, and stood in front of what he recognized as the main doors to the building, with a banner hanging over the entrance and enough lettering in the picture to pick out, "GRAND OPENING". Even in the grayscale, Mike could tell she had a tint to her skin. The portrait she held was of a smiling black man with a bald head, bushy beard, and a soft, cheerful look in his eyes.
March 10, 1967
After Frederick "Freddy" Wickes mysteriously disappeared last year, his widow, Bonnie Wickes, held firm to their dream, and opened Fredbear's Family Diner-
His vision blurred before he could read another word. Mike gasped, suddenly struggling to breathe. His head swam for a moment as his vision darkened. The paper crinkled in his tightening hands.
Then a breath forced itself from his lungs. Mike choked out a cough. He lifted his arm to cover his mouth and caught a glimpse of the time as he did.
5:57am.
Mike cleared his throat, then dropped the articles back into the folder. He had just enough time to put the folder back, shove the drawer closed, rearrange the desk chair, and make his way out of the room. Mike quickly locked the office, before he stared down into the dining room.
Everything looked just as it did before, save for Bonnie, Freddy, and Chica all with their eyes facing to right. Mike knew what they wanted.
He still hadn't seen what else was buried behind the wall.
Mike set the office key on the prize counter, knowing there was nothing else in the office he needed, before he made his way across the room.
A heaviness filled his chest as he approached the stage. Mike forced himself to keep breathing. The flashlight shook as he walked by Chica. He heard a faint whirring sound and imagined her head turning toward him, her purple eyes keeping him in sight until he walked out of her vision. He kept the bright beam facing forward, not daring to confirm his suspicion.
Mike approached the wall by the bathrooms and ignored the spot he dug out before. He moved closer to the right this time, knowing that if he were to find anything, here would be best to look, to see into the other side of the room. His heart jolted a bit. That deathly smell that Freddy and Bonnie both carried on them still hung under his nose, and here, it seemed to increase. He tried not to think of the rumors and pushed back any residual fears of what he might find. They spared him for this. He needed to know what they wanted.
Like before, he felt for a weakness in the wall, doing everything in silence. Mike had no music to lure him this time, no Puppet to guide him.
He found a soft spot behind a Foxy drawing, the paper older and brittler than the others. It spoke enough of how long ago the pirate's attraction closed. Mike carefully pulled the drawing aside, then reached for his keys. That same feeling that came over him last night, of being in the back of his mind while something else puppeted his body, came back.
It wasn't his own hand lifting the key to the plaster and shoving the metal teeth as far in as they would go. It wasn't his own wrist that twisted and dug. It wasn't his other hand holding the flashlight, nor his own eyes observing every movement, every plaster chip breaking away.
Mike watched in a haze as the plaster continued to break. Everything else faded to the back of his mind, showing only the gray and white speckled wall, the small darkening tunnel appearing in it, the occasional glint of metal as the key sawed back and forth.
BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP.
He jumped at the sound and cut down further than he meant. Mike choked on his heart as his mind snapped back to reality. His shaking, startled hands dropped both the flashlight and his keys. Cursing under his breath, Mike shut off his watch and reached down to pick them up.
He dusted off the key, then held up the flashlight to examine the hole he started to dig. In comparison to the other hole, Mike hardly got halfway through this one. A long scar in the plaster marked where his hand slipped and clawed through when his watch brought him back to the real world. It resembled a crying eye peering back at him, the crack in the wall a jagged tear tapering off into a point.
Not long after he got back to it, the welcoming jingle suddenly played. He clicked off the flashlight and held the keys tightly to keep them from jingling. The sudden darkness of the restaurant played to his advantage as he slipped into the small alcove leading into the boys' bathroom.
Maybe Waylon wanted to ensure he left on time for once. Mike glanced to his watch.
6:03am.
To his legitimate surprise, he heard not the manager's disgruntled tone, but a familiar, "Kid?"
He carefully peered around the partition, not quite able to see the front door, or even the hostess stand, but sure enough, the janitor walked into the dining room. The old man made a beeline down the east hall to the security office.
"Kid?" he called again. "Kid, you here?"
Mike glanced into the dining room, then back at the wall that blocked off the hidden room. Thinking quickly, he slipped back over, grabbed the old Foxy drawing, and put it over the hole he started to carve. Maybe tonight, he could get in early and finally find what they wanted to show him.
"Kid!" the janitor cried. "Where are you?"
The old man's voice went from concern to panic. Mike heard his footsteps coming down the west hall, back toward the dining room. He glanced behind him to make sure the Foxy drawing stayed in place, then turned back to the sea of tables and chairs. Taking a shaky breath, Mike stumbled into the dining room, making a point to stay as far from the stage as he could.
"Why the fuck do you-do you care?"
The janitor flinched with shock, then turned around to face Mike.
"Give me a heart attack, will you, kid?"
Mike ignored him.
"Why the hell are you here?"
The janitor glared at him, his face and tone stern.
"I knew you weren't okay last night," he said. "And somethin' you said got to me."
He made a small gesture to Mike's collar. The night guard quickly brought a hand up to his neck to hide any hint of the bruise right there. The janitor's gaze softened a bit as he spoke again.
"That bit about not bein' believed."
He gestured to the nearest table to offer a seat to Mike. Mike watched him for a moment, but nodded. The other man silently pulled out a chair for him and allowed the night guard to collect his thoughts.
Mike stared at the chair, uncertain if he wanted to take the invitation. After pondering it, he gave a faint, shaky nod to the janitor as he took the seat. He closed his eyes and tried to still his trembling body. Many questions came to mind, thoughts of last night that he pushed back for a moment. His gaze focused on the tablecloth as he finally found the courage to say something.
"...What happened to the other guards?" Mike whispered.
"Kid, I told you. I don't-"
"Don't lie to me!" Mike snapped, turning to look the old man right in the eye. "Just...just don't."
His neck throbbed with the increase in volume. Mike gently ran his shaking fingers over the bruise to soothe it. His chair rattled against the floor, the metal legs clacking against the tile. The janitor winced, but quickly regained his own composure.
"Kid…"
"I know about what...what happened," Mike continued. His voice threatened to break. "To o-one of them, at least."
He looked up, but no longer saw the janitor's face. Only the image of that back room, the empty heads all staring right at the camera.
At him.
"The guy on the phone d-died," Mike whispered. Control slipped with every word. "He died! And i-i-if this is some sort of s-s-sick joke, then t-tell me-"
The floodgates of his survival mode finally burst open. The horrific thoughts he tried to keep back cascaded into his mind and his body, forcing him to process everything he'd tried to push back.
Phone Guy's death. The hallucinations. His lost items mysteriously returning. The encounters with Freddy and Bonnie. The files he uncovered. Every moment of terror that built up in those four nights, every near-miss of demise, every death grip on the tiniest fragments of hope.
"-Because it isn't f-fucking funny anym-m-more!"
Mike kept his hand at his throat. He covered his mouth with the other and forced himself to breathe, unsure if he wanted to scream or cry or vomit. Mike closed his eyes and shook his head as the first few tears broke through.
Focus.
Concentrate.
Breathe.
Two strong hands gripped his shoulders. Mike let out a weak, pathetic cry and pulled away as his mind went to the robotic creatures on the stage. His eyes shot open. The janitor's concerned face blurred into view. His strong hands kept their grip. Mike calmed down only when he felt the warmth and bloodflow of another human being.
"Kid," the janitor said, quietly. "I believe you."
Mike reached up to wipe his face, then shifted out of the other man's grip. This time, the janitor let him go. The old man crossed his arms and set them on the table. He watched the night guard carefully. Concern shifted to contemplation as he thought of what to say.
For a long while, the only sounds were shaking metal against tile and stifled sobs.
"...I wasn't entirely truthful with you the other night," the janitor said after a moment. "I don't blame you for not believin' me. I mean, I come in day in, day out, and watch other guards turn tail'n run. That's enough to make anyone with a good noggin on their shoulders suspicious."
Mike simply gave a weak nod. He shook less now he composed himself again. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve while the other man continued.
"And you're right that I know some things. Not much, but some things. Didn't bother to tell you before because I didn't think you'd stick around. But you came back last night, and you're still here now."
The janitor paused with a glance toward the stage.
"I know the guards on the night shift get weird phone calls," he continued. "They ask about 'em, and I don't know anything more'n what they tell me. I've got the gist of 'em, though. Some guy calls in about the rumors and the '87 incident. Next thing you know, folks are spooked and won't come back."
Mike winced at the mention of '87. If the janitor noticed, he made no indication.
"He died," Mike whispered again. He quickly gestured to the stage, at the silent, unmoving animatronics. "I heard them. Th-the noises they make. They...surrounded him. A-and then the call-"
The janitor nodded and held up a hand to show that he didn't need to say anymore.
"I told you I believe you, kid." He cleared his throat. "I always knew somethin' happens here at night. And I knew that those critters over there-" he flicked a thumb toward Freddy, "-had something to do with it. Truth be told, I'm not too keen on findin' out for myself."
A glance back to Mike, a shift in his chair to better face him. The night guard ignored him for a moment to look at the stage as well. Bonnie, Freddy, and Chica all looked innocuous as usual, their lazy gazes unthreatening. The brighter morning light from the front windows banished some of the shadows away and glinted off the numerous silver stars hanging around them.
Only toys, Mike thought, though he no longer believed it.
He stared at them another moment, looking for any small changes in their faces, their hands.
Nothing.
"And five'll get me ten that one of 'em got to you," came the old man's voice.
Mike winced, but turned back to the janitor. He slowly nodde to confirm. For the first time, he realized the old man wasn't in his usual work jumper, but an old plaid shirt and jeans that had seen better days, a newer gray jacket to keep out the November chill. Something about them made the janitor appear older than usual, brought out more of the gray in his salt-and-pepper hair and beard, and the wrinkles forming in his aging face. Even his voice seemed raspier.
No matter their previous interactions, this man came to check in on him when he didn't have to and even answered questions he once refused. Mike chose to return the favor.
"...Bonnie," he whispered.
A strange look crossed the janitor's face.
"What?"
Mike slowly pointed his trembling hand to the large purple rabbit onstage. The janitor followed his fingers. Whatever the old man thought before faded away as he nodded to confirm.
"Bonnie," Mike whispered again. "That's how..."
He took a quick, shuddering breath. His fingers still massaged the bruise at his throat.
"He got into my-my office," Mike explained. "Grabbed my collar. Dragged me o-out of the...room."
"Kid…"
Mike ignored him. He turned his chair around to point out a spot on the floor near Pirate Cove.
"I passed out there around...6am. I heard my watch, but I don't…"
He paused a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.
"...I woke up alive."
The janitor nodded, then looked him over. For a long while, neither man spoke. The stars ahead turned, a stray glimmer occasionally hitting the table. More sunlight shone through the front windows, bouncing off the checkerboard tiles and glass prize counter, brightening the room a little more. Only two sets of breath broke the silence, one calm and pondering, the other stifled and broken.
"...I just have one question for you, kid," the janitor said at last.
Mike had since gone back to staring at the tablecloth. He mentally measured the position of the party hats to give his mind something else to think about, that Bonnie's odd habit could only be described as perfect. He perked a little, then looked back at the janitor. The older man's face hardened again, and his usual caustic tone returned.
"After everything you just told me," the janitor said, "why in the blazes do you keep coming back?"
The roughness in the man's voice actually made Mike smile for a brief second. He even choked out a laugh. This was familiar to him, more normal. More importantly, the man was right. Mike let out another helpless little laugh at the obvious absurdity of the question, and the even more absurd answer to it. He took a long breath to clear his thoughts. Mike's gaze wandered to the stage, then toward the bathrooms. He held still for a moment, unwilling to share that secret just yet.
"...I don't know," Mike finally answered.
He reached up to wipe his eyes again, a lot calmer now. His body still shook and his mind still haunted him with thoughts of last night, but most of the tension left him, leaving him to slowly pick up the pieces. Mike's fingers shifted from brushing away stray tears to rubbing his temples to soothe a sudden headache.
"I almost quit after my second...night," he confessed. "Waylon talked me into staying. After that…"
Mike looked up again, not at the janitor, but across the room to the front door.
Towards temporary freedom.
"...I can...I can s-say that Waylon convinced me," Mike quietly continued, "that I forgot my-my wallet. But the truth is...they're excuses."
He wrapped his arms around himself again to stave off the sudden chill that ran through him. Mike looked back to the stage, to the animatronic band. The janitor followed his gaze.
"...I don't want to be here," Mike whispered, his eyes meeting Freddy's. "I-I tried to quit. I really did."
The bear didn't move. His soft blue eyes still stared out at the miniscule audience, but Mike remembered the deep baritone of his voice again, the gentle words of mercy.
You came here for answers.
He shuddered and lowered his gaze, taking a sudden interest in an old streak on one of the tiles.
"...You were right," Mike whispered.
He heard the janitor shift in his seat.
"'Bout what, kid?"
"That I'm looking for something," he answered, "and I...fuck, I couldn't even tell you what I'm looking for. Just that there's...there's something here, and what-whatever it is, it keeps...drawing me back."
Mike took another breath, then turned to face his coworker.
"I don't come back because I-because I want to," he whispered. "I come back because I have to."
A warm hand gently grasped his shoulder. The janitor repositioned himself before Mike, his demeanor almost grandfatherly now. This time, Mike didn't pull away from him.
"Kid," the janitor said quietly, "I'm telling you right now...you sound like you've gone off your nut, and I can't even pretend to understand it."
Mike gave him a resigned nod. Even he agreed it sounded crazy.
"But I can tell you this: I've watched many night guards come and go. Usually fresh-faced kids right out of high-school and lookin' for easy work. Occasionally get an older gent tryin' to do somethin' with his life, and then there's the folks who get spooked their first night because of the rumors and never come back."
The janitor smirked a bit. He let go of Mike's shoulder and settled back in his seat. The old man hooked an arm over the chair's back and rested his other elbow on the table. He gave Mike a quick once-over, from the hat that hid his eyes, to the badge at his chest, to his black shoes pigeon-toed on the floor.
"Your first night, I figured you'd be gone like the others," the janitor said. "Then you're back, not so much scared as pissed off, but I've seen it before. Kind of a toss-up as to whether or not I'd see you again, but another night passes. I expected you to turn tail, but here you come again, still with a bit of fight in you."
The man mustered something resembling a smile. Mike lacked the desire to even try to return it. He just sat quietly, hands now in his lap and shifting over each other to give them something to do.
"Men older'n bigger than you have quit by now," the janitor continued. "But look at you, kid. Four nights, and I'm hard-pressed to think of the last time that's happened. Whatever your reason, kid, you've got some brass stones."
Mike snerked a bit.
"Not so much stones as insanity."
"Maybe," the janitor agreed. "And maybe that's what it's gonna take. I saw something in you, kid. You've got this...this spark that the others lacked. Like you're determined to do this, come hell or high water."
His face softened a little more. Mike's gaze dropped and his hands stilled.
"Like I said," the old man continued, "can't even pretend to understand it, but I admire your commitment to it. And I'll bet dollars to donuts that you'll be back again tonight."
"Not like I have a date," Mike muttered.
The janitor chuckled at that.
"Whatever it is you're looking for, kid, I hope you find it."
He stood up, then offered a hand to Mike. Mike hesitated a moment, then took it. He the other man help him to his feet. They put the chairs back into position, the room once more ready for today's activities. The door jingle played, and both Mike and the janitor looked over. Waylon Kent entered, looking sour as usual. His eyes immediately went to the two men still standing in the room.
"Schmidt!" he exclaimed, narrowing in on the night guard first. "We talked about this! You're supposed to be out the door as soon as your shift ends!"
Before Mike could get a word out, the janitor stepped in.
"Give the kid a break. He's had a long night."
Waylon's gaze went to him then.
"And what are you still doing here?"
"Finishin' up," the janitor said simply. "Had a little bit left undone before midnight. Figured I'd get to it real quick before you got in so none of your staff had to."
Waylon calmed down a little.
"Fine," he said. "But I've already told Mr. Schmidt-"
Mike again tried to protest. Once more, the janitor beat him to it.
"He was just leaving," he continued. "He's also the first night guard in months who's stayed longer'n three nights. The job's a lot more stressful than it sounds; he just needed a bit to recharge his batteries before heading home."
A glance to Mike.
"Ain't that right, kid?"
Mike stared at him, aghast that the janitor got Waylon to shut up for a minute. Waylon shrunk back at the older man's words, but quickly composed himself to glower at Mike. Mike took the hint.
"Y-yeah," he said, agreeing with the janitor. "I was...just leaving."
The janitor said gave him a soft clap on the back.
"Get some rest, kid. You look like you need it."
Mike gave him a grim nod, then searched his pocket for his keys. He shot a glance to Waylon, able to pull up his usual composure for a moment.
"I'll be back tonight," he said firmly.
"Fine," Waylon grumbled. "Be on time."
"He always is," the janitor confirmed.
"By the way," Mike said, "I found a key while making my checks last night. It's on the prize counter in case anyone calls."
The cutesy jingle played as Mike headed out the door. The janitor watched him go, then turned to Waylon.
"Gonna head out myself," he said. "I did what I came to do."
Waylon nodded.
"Good."
"And I meant what I said," the janitor told him. "That kid's the best guard you've gotten in a long while. Don't be so hard on 'im."
Waylon went quiet for a moment, then nodded.
"...I know," he admitted. "No one ever stays very long on the night shift. It'd be nice if Schmidt can save me the headache of having to hire again."
He cleared his throat and with it, pulled up his authority.
"The cooks are going to be in soon. I'm going to get some work done."
"I'll leave you to it," the janitor said.
Waylon brushed himself off, then headed for the manager's office. He stopped by the prize counter to pick up the key. The janitor started to leave when the sound of rustling paper caught his attention. He turned in time to see the old Foxy drawing fall, and the hole it tried to hide.
He turned back toward the manager's office. Waylon was going through his keys to unlock the door, and hadn't noticed the paper. The janitor bent down, pretending to fix his shoelace while watching Waylon in the corner of his eye. The manager looked at his key ring, then at the single key held in his hand. He tried it, and the confused, angry look said enough of his bafflement at how it came loose.
Once he saw Waylon head into the office, the janitor stepped on the little welcome mat in front of the door solely to make the jingle play.
He heard the office door shut and smirked a bit. Confident Waylon assumed he left, he carefully headed down the hall toward the bathrooms.
The kid kept looking over there while they talked, and come to think of it, the night guard came from that direction when he first approached him.
The janitor walked over to the wall by the bathrooms. It only took a few seconds to find the hole. The edges were too clean for this to be simple weak plaster, and the scratches around it showed evidence that a tool of some sort had been used. That the old Foxy sketch tried to hide it spoke enough that someone tried to find something.
Had the kid done that...?
The night guard did say he was looking for something. And come to think of it, this wall wasn't always here.
The janitor reached into his pocket for a small Swiss army knife. After selecting the small saw tool, he got to work, easily cutting through the weakened plaster. In a moment, he pushed through to the other side, the wall now sporting a neat hole about two inches in diameter. He pulled a penlight from the end of his keychain and peered inside. The edge of an old video game cabinet - a Chica game, judging by the side art - appeared in the beam, and as he moved it to the right...something else sat against the wall on the other side of the room.
The janitor shifted a bit and moved the pen light to better see it. When he picked out the new object, a soft, sad smile formed over his lips.
"...Hello, old friend," he said, quietly. "It's been...quite a few years, hasn't it?"
The janitor shut off the penlight, then bent down to grab the Foxy sketch. He carefully tacked it back in place, to ensure it would stay where it was during the day. The janitor then headed back to the main room, not caring if Waylon heard a second welcome jingle.
"You'll get your answers tonight, kid," he said, quietly. "I'll make sure of it."