Prologue – 6 AM
The moment Grant and Wilson reached the door, they knew what awaited them.
"How long did this one last?" Grant asked the older janitor.
Finishing the cigarette, Wilson tossed it to the ground. "Think five days, give or take. Knew the boy didn't have it in 'im."
"Yeah," Grant snorted, "You always seem to know, old man."
They stepped into the darkness within the pizzeria. The windows had long since been blacked out, so no natural light ever spilled into it. Even during the day, the atmosphere was eery.
Freddy Fazbear's Pizza was no longer the 'magical place' those who came before always stated it used to be.
Although, Grant mused, was it ever?
It had been seven long years since Freddy's had closed its doors for the last time. Too many scandals, too many cover-ups. Turns out if you lose five kids, people don't want to visit anymore.
Grant had never really liked the animatronics that much. Some of the other employees did, either because of nostalgia or because of blind faith in a dying brand. But you clean up enough of their messes, you start to despise them.
If only the new kid had known that.
Reaching into his belt, Wilson pulled out a flashlight and switched it on. The two janitors wandered through the entrance hall. The moment they stepped into the dining area, the smell finally hit them.
"I swear," Grant mumbled, "I'll never get used to that."
Wilson patted his arm. "Stay focused. We got a job to do."
On the stage was the band itself. Bonnie with his red guitar, Chica with her eyed cupcake, and the head honcho himself. With his black top hat and a microphone as big as Grant's forearm, he looked amusingly classy.
He kind of looked like the boss, Mr. Garfield.
Grant chuckled to himself at the thought of Garfield in his stupid brown suit, accompanying Freddy with a smaller top hat and microphone.
Glancing at him, Wilson frowned. "What's so funny?"
"You wouldn't get it," Grant waved him off.
One peek in the backstage room voided any chance of a different outcome. The inside stank like an overfilled dumpster.
"Judgin' by the lights," Wilson said, "I'm guessin' he ran out of power."
Grant grunted in response.
They knew the drill: Whilst Wilson would stay to 'watch'—which was code for him not wanting to 'strain himself'—Grant would have to wheel the cleaning trolley to the backstage room.
Without saying another word, Grant walked off to do his job. A short trip down the hallway and he found himself outside the cleaning cupboard. He opened the door and looked within.
He knew what was in there; he'd been there too many times. Wanting to get it over and done with, Grant packed the trolley and started rolling it back down to Wilson.
Wilson at least opened the door for him, though it was always difficult fitting the trolley through. Putting it in an empty part of the otherwise-cluttered backstage room, Wilson grimaced at just how bad the smell was.
"Did the boy piss himself?" Wilson grumbled.
Rolling his eyes, Grant looked at him. "Wouldn't you?"
The older janitor didn't have a response to that.
Approaching the suit itself, which had been propped up on the table like always, they lowered it down to the floor and examined it.
Wilson knocked on it a few times, a heavy thud synchronizing up with each knock.
"Why do you gotta do that?" Grant asked him with an annoyed frown.
Wilson shrugged, "Jus' making sure."
"What, you didn't see the blood?"
"Well, you never know," Wilson gave a shrug, "Maybe someone will get lucky one day."
Grant looked down at the seams of the suit. Two sets for each part of the body; one for maintenance, the other for placing or taking out. He took the wrench from his belt and pressed it against the opening on the side of the chest cavity.
With a grunt and a grimace, he heaved it open.
The smell finally hit an all-time high. Grant had to look away and take a few breaths through the toxic air, his eyes watering slightly.
Glancing back, he spotted the tell-tale sign of shredded fabric inside. It was like one of the endoskeletons inside the animatronics on stage had put on an employee's jumpsuit and climbed back in.
But it wasn't an endoskeleton. Beneath the stained magenta jumpsuit was the feel of once-warm flesh.
On the chest of the jumpsuit was an employee ID, somewhat still visible, reading two simple lines:
Andrew Hewitt
Night Guard
The sound of footsteps outside the backstage room perked Grant's attention. He glanced at Wilson, who in a state of shock, stood up. Outside the backstage room, a shadow approached before stopping at the doorway.
Peter Crews poked his head around the corner, his face pale.
Putting on a relaxed façade, Wilson smiled at him. "Pete. You alright?"
Looking between Wilson and Grant, who was still kneeling on the floor next to the animatronic suit, Crews nodded. "Um, yeah. I-I came to take over the g-guard shift. From, uh…Andy?"
"Ah, yeah, he left already." Wilson explained, "Wanted to beat the rush hour."
"Yeah, but he didn't clock out." Peter, who hadn't seen the suit because of the table that obstructed his vision, glanced between the two of them again. "S-sorry, but what's that smell? It's—"
"Pipes 'ave been actin' up all week," Wilson relaxed against the table, "Me an' Grant are gonna fix it, but we've got another job to do first 'ere."
Peter gulped. "It smells like—"
"No cursing at Freddy's." Grant sarcastically reminded.
Stepping over to him, Wilson patted the young day guard's back a couple of times. "My shift don't technically start for another ten minutes. I'mma go for a coffee. You wanna come, Crews? You look like you could do with one."
Peter blinked, "I…I don't have my wallet on me."
Waving him off, Wilson insisted. "I'm buyin'. Come on."
As Wilson led Peter off with him, he looked back at Grant and shrugged. Grant felt like cursing himself because while it was all well and good that Crews hadn't seen what they were doing, it also meant that Grant was left by himself to sort out the body.
Crouching back down, he took in another breath before placing his hands on the gigantic spare head of Freddy Fazbear. With a heave, he pulled the head off the main body.
He yelped as something fell out of the neck hole of the head, splatting against the floor and rolling away, spurting red a few times before coming to a complete halt facing away from him.
Not being able to hold it in anymore, Grant felt dizzy, grabbed the table next to him for support, and vomited up his breakfast. He cursed Garfield for running this place the way he had been doing for the last five years.
He cursed Wilson for taking the easy way out, running off with Crews to get a coffee in the middle of summer so that he could avoid getting his hands dirty.
And most of all, he cursed himself for screwing up his life so badly that it led to him taking a job at a failing pizzeria with more scandals than customers and not having the education or support to look elsewhere.
Feeling rage boiling over the horror, Grant kicked the table and cursed again and again.
After sitting there for what felt like minutes, he stood up, his self-pity parade over and done with. Wilson was going to be done with his 'coffee break' very soon and Grant had work to do.
Hours Later
The man sighed as he reached the block. Apartment 17 was three floors up. After an eight-hour shift working in a busy, often dangerous resources and materials warehouse for a local 'Do it Yourself' business, it wasn't exactly paradise to have to walk up three flights of stairs just to get to your home.
Today, he'd been having to carry these gigantic pallets of wood by hand because the forklift used normally had broken down and the boss wasn't going to get a new one for at least another couple of weeks. Extortionate delivery prices were his reasons.
For some of his co-workers, the warehouse job was difficult, low-paying, and a massive pain in the ass ninety percent of the time.
For Mike Schmidt, it was a blessing after what had happened nine months before.
He'd remember sitting there, at his dining table with a lone chair, scanning through the newspaper that had been pushed through his letterbox earlier in the day. It had stood out, almost deliberately.
Help Wanted
Freddy Fazbear's Pizza
Shaking his head, he still didn't know why he hadn't tossed it away immediately. Desperation, he supposed. That allowed him to ignore the illogical appearance of a newspaper that he didn't even have a subscription to being given to him, dismiss the warnings of injury and dismemberment as mere jokes, and worse of all, make futile reasons to explain away the many urban legends surrounding that building.
The moment he stepped into Freddy's, he should've figured it out.
Mike changed that week. It was understandable, he supposed; seven nights of his own survival being threatened, a gruesome death awaiting if he failed. He'd been lucky enough to walk out alive, but the shadow of that place had never left him.
Struggling to get his door unlocked, he fumbled with the keys to his apartment before it finally gave. He pushed into the cluttered room, with two windows shaded with that translucent glass he'd always hated and the third boarded up after it'd been smashed only a couple of days after he had moved in.
Giving another rough sigh, he wiped away the sweat on his brow and went to the fridge. He scanned the inside, before cursing himself for forgetting the alcohol.
His day was made worse when the phone started ringing.
Quickly, his mind went through the options as he picked up the phone. Could it be his boss, wanting to talk to him about the incident with the forklift? His landlord asking about a couple of days late rent once more? Or maybe even the mental institute down the road?
Somehow, it was even worse.
"Hello," A voice that sent shudders through Mike's spine spoke, "Is this Michael?"
The voice belonged to Mr. Garfield. His old boss.
"Garfield?" Mike took a couple of breaths before continuing, "Why are you calling me?"
Surprisingly, Garfield seemed to be happy when he responded, "Ah, good to hear from you, sport! It's been a while."
"Six months." Over and over again, Mike went through the possibilities of why the manager of Freddy Fazbear's was talking to him once more. "I thought you made it clear that we wouldn't talk again after what happened."
"Ah yes, that incident. Have to say that I found it difficult to give you your pink slip, sport, but you didn't give me a lot of choice."
Mike frowned. "I defended myself."
"You attacked our beloved animatronics with a wrench, I recall."
"They tried to stuff me in a bear costume."
"Oh, come on now sport," Garfield insisted on calling him that ridiculous nickname, "I didn't call you so that we can rehearse old grudges!"
"Clearly." Mike said dryly, "So, why did you call?"
"Well, unfortunately, a position has opened up on our security team and there isn't anyone available to fill it."
"Let me guess," He said in a false inquisitive voice, "Missing person?"
Garfield didn't seem to expect that. "How did you know?"
"Lucky guess." Mike shook his head, not knowing if the manager was putting on his usual naïve speel or if he genuinely lacked the details. The former night guard would've guessed based on the empty position what had happened, but the missing person poster he'd spotted on his way back home had already given him that idea.
It seemed that Andrew Hewitt had enough people to care about him to warrant putting up a few missing posters around the neighborhood. It was just a shame that when people went missing in this town, they rarely would be seen again.
"Well, the position needs to be filled by Sunday and no one seems to be applying."
Mike couldn't help but laugh at that. "Gee, I wonder why?"
Waving that off, Garfield continued to be ignorant. "The unjustified rumors and urban legends are getting to become a hassle."
"Seem pretty justified to me."
"In any case," Garfield pressed in, wanting to regain control of the conversation, "I'm wanting to offer the position back to you. You're already experienced and I still have a good feeling about you, in spite of your actions."
Mike laughed again, this time more painfully, "You're kidding me, right?"
For a few seconds, Garfield was quiet about that. "I'm willing to give you a $2 pay rise."
"Per hour?" Mike smirked.
"Well…no, but—"
"Make it $10 and I'll consider."
"So, $130 per week? That's not—"
"Wrong again." Mike continued to smirk, naturally not expecting it to go anywhere.
He half expected Garfield to have an aneurism at that. "You…you mean $14…" Mike almost burst out into laughter at the image of Garfield's face turning red as he struggled through the math. "You seriously expect me to give you $84 per shift?"
"On your hands and knees." Mike didn't know what the manager expected, a happy and grateful reunion?
For what felt like minutes, Garfield didn't say anything. It was like the final bits of sanity in the deluded old man's head were being wrenched out at the thought of a minimum wage employee being paid so much.
His response finally came.
"Fine," He grumbled, "But overtime is mandatory, as always."
Needless to say, Mike was not expecting that answer. His own mind fished around exactly what that amount of money meant. $420 every week, plus the overtime pay he'd receive?
It was twice as much as what he was getting at the warehouse. A bit more than that, considering the overtime. Garfield must've been truly desperate enough.
The words left his lips before he could even begin the process them.
"I'm in."
With an audible sigh of relief on the other end of the phone, Garfield responded, "Glad to hear that, sport! Come down Sunday night and we can get your contract signed. It'll be just like old times!"
When Mike set down the phone, he had to sit down again and started cursing himself for a fool.
"What the hell have I done?!" He screamed into his hands. He'd just led himself off a cliff. Practically served himself as a first-class meal to Freddy Fazbear himself.
Why did he do it?
He opened his eyes and looked across the room from him. Inside the in-built closet to the side of his bed lay a chest, padlocked and secure. Way before Freddy's, he'd been a gun nut. He and one of his only friends, Benjamin, met that way.
Benji was a hunter and he'd bought Mike his first gun: a Beretta 92. Since then, Mike had used whatever savings he earned to further his own gun collection that was naturally dwarfed by Benji's. A couple more pistols, a few close-combat weapons like a short machete, and an SMG. That had cost Mike an arm and a leg.
But he'd never had to use them.
A plan started to formulate in his head. Ever since he'd walked out of Freddy's alive, it had never truly left him. The nightmares, the hallucinations, the recurring sense of dread; they'd missed their chance to harm him physically, but the scars they gave him were something much more.
It was time he gave as good as he was given.
For the first time in years, Mike Schmidt smiled. He was going to take the job again. He was going to visit some old friends. He was going to bring those guns in with him.
And by the time he would be finished, Freddy Fazbear and his gang would be lying broken and bleeding oil.
So it's been a long time since I've written at all, much less writing anything about FNAF. Some of you might remember me. Most of you probably don't. I've been trying to write this damn thing for the better part of seven years now.
Of course, I've been trying to get back into things, but as I'm sure many of you know, writer's block is an absolute pain in the arse. I was trying to put things together starting from last month, but I wasn't truly planning on writing this for at least a while longer.
Then, just last week, Scott Cawthon announced his retirement.
I'm not going to talk about what happened leading up to it, because I still have mixed feelings about it, but what I will say is this: Scott had such a massive impact on my life. Five Nights at Freddy's was what led to me discovering what I wanted to achieve in life. All of my original ideas that I hope to one day create, were given life by my love of this series.
So that is why I've come back. Because I'm not willing to give up on those dreams. This may be a great leap towards it, or merely a minor step. But I owe it to Scott and I owe it to myself to make good on that inspiration.
So I'm writing this story. And here's hoping for more after this. And if anyone who reads it wants to join me along the ride, wants to enjoy it, wants to criticise it, or simply wants to give it a one-off chance, feel free. I'm always willing to learn.
Either way, I'm writing this story. No matter what.