Hello (again?) reader. I'd answer review questions here but, unfortunately, I received none. It's okay, though, I recognize it's probably not catchy enough to garner too much attention (a failure/weakness on my part). I'm satisfied seeing the readers graphs for now. I'm seeing, maybe 24 people who likely gave this a good read-over and would like to thank them for their time.

Anyway, last chapter David the night guard said he was leaving for a week. It was June 20, 1987 from the timestamp he read. Here we see what happened the following Friday. This chapter is my take on the missing children incident.

(Strong Note) This was a difficult and disturbing chapter to write. If you just ate or are squeamish, consider only reading the poem parts (italicized and centered) first. It won't be a complete picture, but you shouldn't be left out of any important plot points if you decide to skip the prose.

Disclaimer: As before, I do not own FNAF or any of the characters from the game. Picture is by Orlando Fox; great artist though she's stopped posting FNAF artwork awhile ago due to other people making claims to her work. I think she's considering posting again but, you know, once-burned-twice-shy and all that. Do go ahead and google her work. Leave a comment on her tumblr, if you can.

PART I

Do You Remember

Chapter II

When The Air Went Still

Five little children

Trying to get high score.

One failed to defeat the boss

And then there were four.

In that moment, there was nothing more satisfying than the feel of metal rending flesh, and bone.

The intruder smiled as the body readily yielded to the cleaver in his hand. There was barely any effort on his part as he worked his craft and made cut after cut, expertly separating joints through soft cartilage. One by one, he prepared them for what was to come. Feet, forelegs, thighs, forearms, arms, torsos, and heads. He put them neatly in identical piles on the long table behind him in the middle of the room as he worked, all arranged in a line from the first kill on the furthest left to the last one on the furthest right.

When he finished, he stood in silence and looked at his bloodstained hands. In the dim light, the blood had begun to dry and shone a pure black. He recalled it fondly, the feeling of a final breath being drawn, their soft delicate bodies, and the futile struggle they put up. Ah, and the panic in their eyes! Those terrified eyes! Ah what a feeling!

His hands trembled slightly at the memory of his last kill, of the little boy who ran up the stage and hid behind the mechanical animals there. He turned and looked out the kitchen windows and onto the stage. While the others he struck down by the blade, that last boy he strangled right there on stage. For a moment he relived doing it again, but this time with the dining room full of imaginary people watching. Crying. Screaming.

He imagined the boy once again struggling against the grip of his hands, and the weight of his body bearing down against the child. He panicked, he kicked, and he fought. Ah how the little scamp fought.

But what he liked best about the boy was how they tyke trusted him so readily. In his excitement of what was to come, he had slipped a few times while luring the children in, but the boy believed him so well and talked as if they had known each other forever, that whatever doubts the other children had were quickly put to rest. Such a precious resource that boy was. What pure incorruptible innocence. It felt so tender and fragile when he saw it. When he touched it. When he violated it.

He exhaled sharply as he brought his mind to the task at hand. There were five bodies here now, all of them lost and looking up at him expectantly.

He knew exactly where he wanted them to rest.

Four little children

On an eating spree.

One choked on a pizza crust

And then there were three.

What would people say when they find out? No, what would the parents say when they find out? Oh how he wished he could be here to see their precious tortured faces.

He had made three trips now, between the kitchen and the stage. As he wheeled the service cart, which served an adequate gurney, back through the doors to the kitchen he looked back at the masterpieces that stood silently on stage. Blood oozed and dripped from the edges of the suits, tracing lines across colored fur. Long downward lines, thin strokes drawn by gravity, ended in emphatic spatters on the stage.

Beautiful.

He looked at the last two bodies he will be working on. The fourth will be going into the fox in the far room, and the last one, the one he was most fond of, will find a new home in the suit he himself wore when he drew the children in. He glanced at the yellow-gold suit slumped in the corner beneath the camera.

There was an unmistakable sound of a whirr and a click, and he looked up at the source. It was a brief moment, but he was sure of what he saw. The camera's red indicator light dimmed out, as if it had just been turned off. As if it was afraid of him.

He smiled and reached for the knife. There was someone else here.

Three little children

Hiding in the loo.

One slipped on wet floors and fell

And then there were two.

There was only one place where the cameras could be controlled, and only one person who could have been watching him. Was it the night guard? Oh he hoped it was the night guard! He can't wait to show him what he'd done!

As he dashed toward the security office, vaguely recalling the layout of the room, his mind savored the scenes he would soon bring to reality.

He would charge at the guard and tackle him to the ground. There would be a struggle, and in the confusion he would strike the only two targets that mattered. He imagined how the knife would slice the tendons in both of the guard's ankles. Then he would leave the man for awhile to stew in his pain, it would be impossible to walk let alone run or escape. He would take his time to complete his work with the children and to retrieve the thick sturdy ropes he brought with him.

He would search for the guard, following the inevitable trail of blood to the source. And he would find him shivering in terror. Here he would easily overpower the crippled guard and beat him to near unconsciousness, but just not far enough to kill. No, he needed to be alive because he would have a special place of his own.

The intruder would tie the guard up to a chair, and set him right at the center aisle facing the stage. Then he would cut along the length of his tongue, following the helpful line along the middle, so he could both scream and be silent. Then he would take his blade and slice open his eyelids, so the guard could see his creations with unblinking wonder. And finally, two knife strikes on either side of his chest to puncture the lungs. Blood would rush inward and eventually drown him there where he sat, but it would not be a swift death. Minutes, perhaps an hour would pass before the guard succumbed. A slow and agonizing death.

And the best part? The murderer would be there to watch every second of it.

He reached the end of the hallway and turned the doorknob, but found only an empty room.

Two little children

Thought they were having fun.

They knew not what prowled in the night

And then there was one.

Where was he? Where did he go? The intruder cursed under his breath as he stalked the halls to the other side, carefully listening for sounds of movement – footsteps, creaking floors, breathing, anything that could tell him where the night guard was. But what he heard was only the sound of his own noisy footsteps. He tried altering his gait to quiet his own noise, but it was no use.

He reached the end of the hallway, the entrance to the dining room. He looked over the animatronics on stage, and the chairs and tables – all untouched since he had last seen them. He cursed a second time.

He recalled the midnights he spent watching the pizzeria from afar, assessing the guard that came, noting patterns, and envisioning how he would act when they finally met. He didn't know, and couldn't simply ask, why he didn't come to work starting this Monday. He had thought having the place to himself would be convenient, but now that the guard was here he realized his elaborate fantasies would not be complete without him. If only he weren't so elusive.

Fine. If he won't come out, he'll just have to do a house call. He whispered into the darkness, malice thickly layered on his voice. "I know where you live."

And from the darkness to his left came an answer. It sounded bitter but restrained; a seething rage.

"Keel… Haul…"

One lonely child

Left all alone.

Cried in vain for 'friends' to help

And then there were none.

He kicked the double doors to the room on his left and gripped the knife on his right hand tightly. He scanned the room but, once again, there was no one there. No, there was definitely someone here. He could feel it in the air.

It was very dark in the room, what little light there was came from the soft glow that came out from the kitchen windows. But it was enough for him. The doors' hinges pulled them close by their own as he stepped into the room. There were chairs strewn about, props everywhere, and a stage at the opposite side of the room where the pirate animatronic stood facing toward the doors where he came through. There was nowhere to hide here. Except one.

He walked toward the large pit at the far corner. Through the nets that surrounded it, he could see it was full of large white and blue balls. There was no movement but he knew there was someone there. His hands itched restlessly, begging for something to do. Begging for someone to hurt. Begging for someone to torture.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEE…!"

A loud sustained screech tore into the silence. It sounded like brakes applied to a car running at high speed. He turned and looked at the source, and saw that the animatronic on the stage was looking directly at him.

What happened? Was the guard hiding on stage? Did he leave the room without him noticing? He frowned and his teeth gnashed together in rage.

The camera turning off just as he saw it, the empty office, the taunting voice from this very room, and now an animatronic set to look at him and screech – the last of which accomplished while he was in the very room. Was the guard playing with him? His hands shook, incensed that someone would take him lightly.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEE…!"

The piercing noise continued, scrambling his thoughts and exhausting whatever patience he had left. He was angry at the guard, angry at the earsplitting racket, angry at the fox that stood onstage.

He looked around and walked toward a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. He let his weapon drop to the floor and he tore the red can right off the wall. The force pulled the mounting screws halfway out. He began to walk toward the stage, picking up speed as he neared it. His steps had become angry stomps when he took the small stairs at the side.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEE…!"

He glared at the animatronic. Its passive face and incessant screaming mocked him. He must stop the screaming. He walked forward as he raised the fire extinguisher above his right shoulder with both hands, building momentum to bludgeon the fox. But as he approached, he heard a small clink and the screeching abruptly stopped.

A flash of red, black and silver, a hook shot out past him to his left and circled around, piercing his back off-center. He stopped in his tracks, but the hook reeled him forward. A second flash of red and black, a hand came forth toward his throat. The sudden movement felt like a wound up spring finally let loose, and would have pushed him offstage from the sheer force but instead pushed his back deeper into the hook behind him.

He gasped and stared forward, and saw the fox's face was not as passive as he had thought. The eyepatch over its left eye was now raised, and the eyes themselves emitted an otherworldly yellow light. It stared into him, and he found himself silenced by fear. His fingers loosened and he felt the extinguisher slip from his grasp and fall behind him. His mind screamed at him to run, to push the animatronic away and escape, but his body refused to obey. He could only watch as the claw and the hand pulled him closer, his eyes widening as the fox's steel maw opened and engulfed him.

In that moment, there was nothing more terrifying than the feel of metal rending flesh, bone, and brain.

#

For those reading only the poem, an extra passage:

One lone murderer

Stood proud of what he'd done,

When he met an angry fox

Then he was barely anyone.

#

(A/N from here onwards) Pow, surprise Bite of '87! How would the events of this night affect the animatronics and the guard who had taken leave? Next chapter will come next week, barring internet troubles or my laptop and backup failing.

As I said before, this was a very difficult chapter to write. I had initially planned to publish only the poem part but, remembering that this was supposed to be a self-challenge, I tried to man up and get the non-poem parts out as well.

My unease with the gore/horror genre shows here. There are parts where I feel I linger too long or move through too fast, especially toward the end as I was personally beginning to get unnerved with what I was portraying. The part of the fandom I'm seeing (particularly the Rebornica AU) seems to view the purple man/murderer as a fun (black comedy fun, I mean) guy, and I deliberately needed to take that image down here. No offense to them (how to pronoun agender?) though, as I do like exploring characterizations and theories.

I considered it important to get into this chapter with this much disturbing detail so I can make a true monster that no one would ever relate to and would garner absolutely no sympathy. Because by doing so, I hoped to contrast Foxy's action toward the end, as well as cast the murderer's eventual fate into somewhat positive light.

Did you cheer when the murderer got his brains chomped? If so, then I had succeeded (yay). If not, then this was a total flop and I'm complete trash (haha).

As before, if you liked the chapter please consider reviewing. If you didn't, but you care enough to point out where I could improve, consider reviewing as well. I'm still looking for a FNAF forum (preferably with a writers/artist/creative section) so do link me up through review or PM.

PS. I might tweak the next chapter and add a section, I'm not yet sure if I have to move the deadline back if I do decide to push through with that.

PPS. Yes the poem is inspired by that Ten Little Indians thing. No I haven't read anything by Agatha Christie and yes I know this makes me a pretentious douche.

PPPS. Look up keelhauling to make sense of what Foxy said. It's extreme corporal punishment in sailor context.