He once more stood in the hallway he saw that morning.
Speckled walls. Checkered tiles. Children's drawings. Accents in blue-green and purple. Silver stars strung up like Christmas lights. A door at the other end.
The other place.
Mike stepped forward. Unlike earlier, when the hallway stretched with no end in sight, it retained its proper length as he walked. With every step, the lights above faded. Faint whispers tickled his ears. The drawings on either side of the hall changed. The crayon bodies slowly disappeared. The faces darkened, along with any distinguishing features, like hair or hats or ears.
Mike kept walking.
Up ahead, the door came closer. He knew before he saw it that the sign on it said, "Parts and Service". He stole a quick glance to the wall to his left. The few drawings here showed nothing but black circles. Mike took another step, and the circles grew bigger. His stopped for a moment, watching the circles grow. As he stared at them, Mike noticed a faint white dot forming in the center of each circle. Slowly, two white lines grew from each little dot, expanding out in different lengths and angles.
Like clocks.
Once more, he had the thought of running out of time.
Mike looked back to the door. The walls had darkened so much, he barely made out the door's outline. He quickened his pace to get to it. Behind him, he heard clicks, whirs, and hisses. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the Toy animatronics blocking his path. The hallway behind them became an dark, empty void. They didn't chase him like before, but they all stared expectantly. Mike turned back to the door and carefully stepped inside.
There was no room behind it, only darkness. Something hung in the center, with only enough light around it to make out a form. Several disembodied white clock hands gleamed, then disappeared back into the dark.
Mike carefully approached the thing in the center. As he got closer, he picked out the silhouette of a man.
A hanging man.
Something gleamed at his right wrist. The gleam grew brighter, until the only thing Mike saw anymore was white.
The smell of coffee lured him from his sleep. Mike slowly opened his eyes. In front of him, he saw a tissue box and a small stack of magazines. Behind them, VHS tapes and ballet trinkets blurred into view. He carefully pushed himself up, closing his eyes in an attempt to catch the last few seconds of sleep.
He barely registered what he dreamed. Something about black clocks and time and running out of it.
"Evening, sleepyhead."
Mike turned to see Vanna sitting at the other end of her couch, a mug of coffee cradled in her hands. Her drying ponytail hung down her back, parts of it sticking to her large purple sweater. She wore black slacks similar to his, and black sneakers. Her face had fresh make-up, though subtler than usual save for her trademark purple lips.
Vanna let him sit up completely before she gestured to another mug on the coffee table. Mike reached for it, his fingers tightly gripping the ceramic handle. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip. It cooled in the time she poured it, but the coffee retained just enough heat to not be undrinkable sludge.
"I did some thinking while you were asleep," Vanna said, after giving him a moment to wake up. "I changed my mind."
Mike stopped mid-sip and turned to her, a little confused.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
His best friend glanced down to the front half of the greeting card on the table, at the doll-like ballerina and her glittery tutu. Vanna made a small gesture towards it.
"I'm giving this to Puppet myself."
Mike blinked at her, wondering if he heard her correctly.
"Give it to…"
He trailed off as his brain slowly processed this information. Vanna saw the exact moment when it clicked. His pupils shrunk and his eyelids retracted so far back that his eyes threatened to pop straight from his head.
"Vanna, you can't-!"
She didn't look at him, just took another sip of her coffee.
"The hell I can't," Vanna said firmly, once she lowered the mug from her lips. "You're not going alone."
"This is crazy!"
"And you going back isn't?" she shot back.
Mike struggled to form words as he stared at her, his gaze particularly drawn to her purple sweater and black slacks. The longer he stared at them, the more he noticed how they crudely mimicked his uniform. He clutched his mug tighter to try to keep his hands from shaking.
"Vanna," he managed, "...do you even know what you're getting into?"
"All kinds of crazy shit, if what you told me is true," Vanna replied.
She took a long sip to finish off her coffee, letting the silence linger for a moment. The ceramic mug gently clinked against the glass tabletop as she set it down.
"I'm going with you."
"No."
Mike reached to grab the card, to take away her only excuse to join him. Just as his fingers brushed against the glitter, Vanna snatched it off the table. She crossed her arms, the card safely tucked away under her bust.
"Mike," she said, sternly. "You've been asleep for almost seven hours, and you look like you haven't gotten any rest at all."
A frown.
"Tell me honestly: how do you feel right now?"
"Vanna-!"
"Mike."
Her voice softened a little, more of a request now than a demand.
"Answer me."
Mike lowered his gaze to his mug, where not even a silhouette showed up in the dark liquid. Even without a mirror, he knew he probably looked just as bad, if not worse, than he felt.
"...Exhausted," he muttered, before taking another sip.
"Exactly. And it's not going to get any better tonight."
Vanna uncrossed her arms, though she kept a tight grip on the card.
"Besides," she continued, "this isn't...it's not just about you anymore."
She ran her thumb over the glitter on the ballerina's shoes. Mike caught something in her face, a flicker of emotion that faded as she set the card in her lap. Her fingers lazily ran over the rough texture.
"...I started to remember that night," she whispered. "I'm...feeling things I don't know how to explain."
Vanna turned back to him.
"I need to do this, Mike. I need answers. ...Hell, you of all people should understand."
Mike lifted his mug to take another sip, stopping just before his lips touched the ceramic. He hated that she was right. After a moment, Mike took a long drink solely to avoid looking at her, then set his empty mug down beside hers. The green numbers on his watch caught his attention as he did.
10:46pm.
Only an hour left before work.
He needed to go home, to shave, to clean up as best he could…Mike stood up just enough to dig into his pocket for his keys, only to grimace when he found both of his side pockets empty. A jingling sound caught his attention.
Mike looked beside him to see Vanna nonchalantly holding his keys.
"Hey!"
"I had to make sure you didn't leave without me."
Vanna held them up.
"Catch," she said softly.
Mike held out his palm expectantly. A single key flew from her hand to his, having already been separated from the others. He instantly recognized the round shape as his apartment key.
"Vanna…"
He watched her pocket the rest of his keys in response, an assurance he'd come back to her. Vanna then reached to put a hand on his shoulder.
"Go home, Mike," she said quietly. "Get a shower, shave, and come back. We'll eat, and then we'll go."
Her fingers tightened.
"Together."
Mike hesitated, but knew better than to push her away. He gave her a nod and slowly started to stand, shifting out of her grip. Just as he got to his feet, something soft and warm suddenly clutched his fingers. Mike turned back to Vanna, trying to read her face. She tried to keep her face stoic, but the faint tremor on her lips, the concerned look in her eyes, gave her away.
"...You're absolutely sure about this?" he whispered.
Vanna gently squeezed his hand.
"If anything, I'll be your second set of eyes."
Mike blinked, but nodded.
"...Bring a flashlight," he said softly.
Vanna gave him a faint smile and let him go.
"I will."
The blue Suzuki FX pulled into the Freddy's parking lot earlier than usual, at about 11:35pm. Neither the driver nor passenger spoke the entire way. Vanna killed the engine and pulled the keys from the ignition. She casually tossed them back to Mike once they both stepped out of the car. He took a moment to re-attach his apartment key.
Above them, the old sign flickered with age. Vanna watched it for a moment, at how the lights in Freddy's eyes seemed to linger a little longer whenever the rest of the sign faded.
"Creepy," she muttered.
Mike didn't answer. She turned to him, only to see him staring ahead at the front door.
"Mike?"
He blinked and turned to her.
"Sorry," he said, quietly. "Memory."
"What of?"
"Nothing."
Vanna frowned, not believing him. Still, best not to press it right now. Mike put a hand to his waist, where his personal flashlight hung, having left the broken one in the back room that morning. Slowly, he turned to Vanna.
"Ready?" he asked.
Vanna held up her purse, which contained the card, her own flashlight and spare batteries.
"When you are."
Mike nodded and stepped forward with Vanna at his side. Carefully, he dug out the establishment key and reached to open the front door.
Friday, November 13, 1987
He jolted awake to the morning sun creeping in through his window, the November wind rattling the panes. Mike stared at the ceiling as an uncertain fog hung over him, a distinct dread creeping through his veins. The very universe held still, knowing that something, somewhere, was off.
Wrong.
His stomach turned with distinct pain. His ribs ached with stilted breath, and his heart stung with every beat.
Mike knew this feeling. He felt it only once before, but it greeted him like an old friend who only ever came bearing bad news. He remembered that night ten years ago, how he woke with no rhyme or reason to the November wind rattling outside his window.
The night his life changed forever.
The night he woke up alone.
He glanced over to the digital clock on the bedside table. It was almost 10:30am.
From across the room, he heard voices crawling up the stairs, hushed tones that barely made it up to his bedroom. Mike shoved the covers away and pushed himself up. He glanced around the room, at the Alice Cooper posters hastily tacked to the walls, the stack of old school binders on his desk, a set of clothes hanging over the back of the chair.
Mike slid from the bed, his toes finding the soft rug beside it. He bit his lip as images of his childhood bedroom flashed around him.
Blue walls with their shelves of toys and model rocket ships. His door hung slightly ajar as voices echoed up the stairs, barely heard above the wind outside. A sudden chill pushed against his skin as he pulled himself out from under his warm covers, his bare feet turning to ice against the hardwood floor.
The room turned back to normal. Mike took a breath, and readied himself to leave the room.
His stomach turned when he took that first step, his skin tightening in pain as though someone grabbed the skin just under his ribs and at his gut and yanked as hard as they could. The feeling left him vulnerable and out of breath, but it passed a second later. His heart froze with dread, and from somewhere deep within, a very strong urge to cry washed over him as he stepped toward the voices beyond the door.
From down the stairs, he heard Moira talking in her Irish brogue. He tried to pick out her words, but they jumbled together in a hushed mess. The occasional pause she took to listen told him she spoke to someone on the phone. The sense of déjà vu returned as he made his way toward the door.
Every step cut with cold until he reached the bedroom door. With a careful grip, he grabbed his doorknob, his fingers tightening around the cold metal ball. Slowly, he turned the knob, minding the creaking hinges as he pulled the door back. He opened it just enough to crawl out, and he stayed down, making his way to the railing on the stairs. He sat against the wall where it met the railing.
"...No," he heard Moira say. "He hasn't...is his car there? ….Well, go look! It's light blue, small, sort of boxy looking. A...Sue-something. Su-su-ki? It's a 1983 model. Yes, I'll hold while you check."
Mike slipped toward the stairs, keeping his footsteps quiet and careful. He took a few quiet steps, gripping the railing for dear life. About halfway down, he barely caught Moira's pink terry cloth robe nervously shifting from the living room, the phone cord swaying beside her. Her free hand nervously clawed into her brown hair, her long nails tangling through locks that hung over her back.
The conversation faded in and out, but he listened as his babysitter spoke with the officers. He picked out a few things, but they told him everything he needed to know: the roads were wet. The brakes gave out. The car broke through the overpass.
No one survived.
Moira turned back towards the foyer and stairs, in time to catch her teenaged foster son looking down at her. Her fingers caught in her hair as she hastily pulled her hand away.
"...Ma?" Mike asked.
Moira started to answer him, then held up a finger as whomever she was speaking to came back on the line. She turned away to continue speaking.
"Yes, I'm still here. It is? I told you-no, he has to be there. ...Are you daft, man? He wouldn't just drive it there and leave it!"
Mike finished his descent down the stairs.
"Ma?"
Moira perked, then turned back to Mike.
"Michael," she said, quietly, ignoring the phone for a second. "I didn't - I thought you were already at work, love."
Work.
Did he even have work today?
The thought took a backseat to the dread that hung over him since he woke that morning. It didn't matter, he decided. Mike had far more important matters on his mind.
...Where's my mom and dad?
"...Where's Jeremy?"
Moira started to say something, then gently shushed him away as she listened to the other person on the phone. She shook her head, then reached up to rub her temples.
Mike headed back upstairs to quickly get dressed. Pants, shirt, sweater. Socks and boots to protect against the November chill. Time blurred as he tightened the laces, barely recalling anything from the last few minutes save for what he picked up from Moira's half of the phone call.
That something happened to Jeremy.
That he might be missing.
Once dressed, Mike stumbled down the stairs like a drunken beast just barely finding its feet again. Moira was still on the phone, but the noisy footsteps on the stairs caused her to turn to Mike as he reached the last step. She took a brief moment from the phone call to gesture toward the kitchen, encouraging him to eat something, before the person on the other end got her attention again. Moira tried to remain calm, but grew more frantic as she listened to each word.
"You listen here!" she demanded. "My boy wouldn't just up and leave like that!"
Mike wanted to stay and try to comfort her, but he knew better than to linger. He briefly caught an awkward male voice attempting to assuage his foster mother as he passed, but heard no decipherable words. Mike obediently went to the kitchen, rummaging loudly just to assure Moira that he complied with her request. His stomach grimaced at the thought of food, and he wanted answers more than he wanted sustenance. Mike compromised by getting a glass of milk from the fridge, practically choking it down as he caught the next bit of Moira's growing wrath.
"You find him!" he heard her scream from the living room. "You find him now or so help me-!"
He didn't hear the rest of the conversation as he made his way to the garage. Jeremy had their shared car, and Da was at work, which left only one option to get to him.
He hadn't used his bike since he graduated a few months ago. The pedals resisted against the cold chain as he urged the bike forward. The garage door groaned as it lifted, revealing an empty driveway where the light blue Suzuki FX usually sat when not in use.
Cold air zoomed past him as Mike turned out of the driveway and down the street.
Time flashed in his mind, that he needed to hurry, to just...be there.
To see his brother's fate.
And hope the worst hadn't happened.