It took Michael longer than he wanted to admit to find the address. He was used to mostly just driving back and forth from Freddy's to his apartment, so any divergence was a bit of a game changer for him. It was the same place Henry had lived when Michael was a kid. He had vague memories of the house, but after Charlie died, he hadn't spent much time there. Looking back, he began to wish that he had attempted to visit Henry more often, if nothing else then to escape his own father. Still, there was no point in dwelling in the past. As unpleasant as it was, he needed to think of the future, and what he could do now.
It was already dark out by the time he arrived, the only light being that of the windows and the sparse street lamps above. It was a quiet little neighborhood, very unsuspecting, with cleanly mown lawns and white picket fences. Michael pulled into the drive way of a small two-story house, big enough for a family of three, but not much more. It was chilling seeing the old house after all this time, like an old dream which had crawled out of the back of his brain. After checking the time, he stepped out of the car, glancing around to see if there was anyone around. Other than himself, there didn't seem to be anyone about.
He stepped up to the front porch, pausing for a moment to stare at the door bell. The porch light was on. Henry had clearly left it on for him, though he wished the old man hadn't. He desperately did not want to be seen, but he had no idea what other way he could approach this from other than a metaphorical ripping of a band-aid. He gently rapped his knuckles against the door. It was what he had always done as a child, the few times he had stopped by at the very least. After a moment of waiting, he heard the sound of a lock being undone on the other side, and the door slowly opened. Michael instinctively drew away, hiding his face behind the baseball cap he was wearing.
"Michael, is that you?"
"Been a long-time sir."
"Michael, you know there was never any need for those formalities."
"Sorry, I guess old habits just die hard."
There was a pause. They were both avoiding any true conversation, that much was obvious to either of them.
"Michael… why are you hiding you're face?"
"You don't want to see it."
"Has… has something happened? Please, just tell me the truth. You look so… frail."
"I already told you… you don't want to see it."
"Michael, just show me," a tentative had reached towards the cap. Michael instinctively fled back, almost tripping down the porch steps. Henry quickly, without thinking, reached out, grabbing him by the hand. As soon as he had taken it, he recoiled at the feeling, letting it slip through his fingers. Michael just barely managed to stop himself from falling on his rear, but any hope of hiding his face had now passed.
They were both staring into each other's eyes now, both in turn, processing how the other looked. Henry was older, to say the least. The last time Mike had seen him, the man had only the beginning of a few grey streaks, but now all the color from his hair had faded. His face had a few more wrinkles to it, and a scraggily beard now clung to him, which stood in sharp contrast to the well-groomed man Michael remembered. There seemed to be something about his aspect which was greatly diminished; a hunched posture, a frailty to the eyes, nothing specific but just little details which whittled away at the vigor he once wielded. Then again, perhaps a great deal of this change in perspective was due to growing up. This was the first time Michael was seeing the man as an adult, and if nothing else, Henry's state was a reminder that his childhood was well and truly buried.
On the flipside, he could scarcely imagine what Henry was feeling, staring into the cold glassy eyes of a corpse. It had to be more unpleasant for the old man, seeing him in this rotted state.
"Michael… what… what happened?" his voice was shaky.
Mike quickly tore his eyes away, hiding under the cap once more, "There was… an accident… on a job."
"What… what kind of a job leaves it's employees like this?"
Michael wanted to look back up to the old man, just for the sake of facing him if nothing else, but he was terrified of what he would see. He couldn't bear the idea of seeing the old man afraid of him. He glanced up, only to be shocked at the sight.
Henry was crying. Crying over Michael of all people. Michael was fairly certain no one had ever wept over him before, save for that of terror. It was… odd. No, not odd… but odd was certainly the closest word he could think of to process the emotion. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve someone else's tears. All he deserved, and all he would ever get, was derision, fear, anger, hatred, terror, it was fitting for what he had done. Yet, in spite of this, here was an old man, an actual human, weeping over him. What made it all the more bizarre was who was weeping. Michael had never seen Henry cry before. The old man always seemed so sure of himself, so confident. Looking back on it, there probably were moments where he had cried, the death of his daughter for instance, but he had never seen it before, and certainly not so openly.
"It was job I did… for my father."
Henry stumbled, leaning against the frame of the door as if he had been slugged in the gut. Michael wanted to go up to the man, to do something, to comfort him, to lend a shoulder, but he was uncertain if he even knew how at this point.
Henry looked up, wiping away his tears with the sleeve of his sweater, "That bastard… that mother fucking bastard. Who the hell does this to their own child?"
Neither of them bothered to follow the question up. A few crickets chirped in response. Michael took his cap off in the absence of conversation, holding it at his side, his face fully unobstructed now.
"Uncle Henry… I'm sorry."
"No, don't you dare," he shook his head, "don't you go apologizing to me."
"But I am sorry, I never should have come. I should have just left it at the phone call. I should have just told you that I was happy and healthy and safe… and that I had escaped all of this. It would have given you some peace."
"That's no way to think my boy. You did the right thing by coming here, even if it is difficult to see you like this… it brings me more joy than anything to know you're still alive," he gave a pained smile.
"You're not… scared of me?"
"You're a good kid Michael, even if you didn't always act like it."
"A good kid wouldn't have killed his own brother."
"And a good father would have made sure his family restaurant was safe. You can't tell me that after all these years you still blame yourself for the accident."
"How can I not? I might have only been one of four, but that doesn't mean I couldn't have stopped it from happening. It wasn't even a peer pressure thing… it was just… it was just… me being an asshole."
Henry cleared his throat, adjusting his posture so that he was no longer leaning against the door frame, "Why don't you come inside." He took a step back, gesturing for the boy to follow. Michael stood there for a moment, not moving from his spot in front of the porch, before stepping up and into the house.
Henry closed the door, locking it behind him before gesturing to the couch in the living room. Looking around, Michael could see that the place had not changed since the 80s, but even then, that was underselling how dated it was. Henry had bought the house back in the 70s on the cheap in order to move closer to the business, and had not bothered to update any of the decor since. If nothing else then the shag rug was a dead giveaway. Michael took a seat on the couch, trying to be as unassuming as possible. It had been a long time since he was a guest in someone else's home, and he certainly did not want to mess it up.
"I'll just get something to drink," said Henry, heading to the kitchen, "do you still like tea?"
Michael shook his head, "Reminds me too much of my father."
"If that's the case, then I'm afraid all I have to offer is water."
"Water would be nice."
Henry nodded, disappearing into the other room. After a moment he returned with a glass, setting it down on a coaster on the coffee table. Michael took it, tilting his head back and letting gravity do most of the work. Without lips, he had made peace with the fact that sipping beverages was a thing of the past. Even with his experience, it was still a rather sloppy sight, with some of the water spilling down onto his shirt. He placed the glass down, feeling rather grotesque at how crude he was certain the sight was.
"You're staring at me… I don't like it when people stare at me."
"S-sorry," Henry quickly averted his eyes.
"I know what you're thinking. You probably only see the monster I've become like the rest of them."
"Michael that's not what I was thinking at all."
"It's ok, you can just admit it. I have no delusions about what I am, about what I look like."
Henry took a seat, an expression on his face which indicated he was genuinely offended, "Now Michael, if you're going to be making assumptions about what I'm thinking then at the very least you need to let me set the record straight."
"Sorry,"
"Don't apologize. I'm sure the way people treat you has given you every reason to think of yourself the way you do," he wrung his hands together, "Michael, when I look at you, I don't see some sort of monster, and I never will. You are, and always will be to me, Michael: a boy who has been badly hurt and is in need of some help. Some help which I was too cowardly and grief stricken to give when you needed it."
"Uncle Henry… don't tell me you're going to go blaming yourself, that's my thing."
"It's true though. You were a mere child, but I was an adult. An adult who knew everything that was going on and did nothing to stop it. I wanted to be ignorant, I did everything I could to give Wil- er… your father, the benefit of the doubt, and look where it led us. How many lives have been destroyed because of my cowardice? All those children… your sister… my sweet daughter. I might not have killed them myself, but how can I claim to be anything less than complaisant in the face of a murderer?"
Michael shook his head, "Now I know how you feel, telling me how dumb I am for blaming myself. You can't seriously go placing yourself on a similar pedestal to Him. There was an investigation by the police… multiple. Normal people are not equipped to deal with the fact that their business partners are child killers."
"It's easy to make excuses like that Michael, but with all due respect, I've given this a lot more thought than you have. If it was really that simple, then I would be rid of this guilt by now, but it isn't. I made those same excuses you made time after time, and I'm tired of making them. Seeing you in this state, it's the consequence of my inaction. If I had done something, if I had done more, then I could have saved you this fate… I could have saved those children."
"SHUT UP!"
Henry's head snapped towards Michal, surprised at the volume and intensity in the young man's voice.
"Michael-"
"NO! Would you listen to yourself? My father would have just killed you too! Quite frankly, we're both lucky to be alive as it is!"
A sudden thud came from another room. Michael glanced in the direction of the sound, his nerves set off by its vague familiarity.
Henry sighed, standing up, "I'm afraid I have to go check in on something."
"What is it?"
"None of your concern. Wait here, I'll be back soon."
Michael stood up, "Is it anything I can help you with?"
"No… just stay there."
Suddenly, there was another thud, and the distant sound of a music box.
"Is that what I think it is?" Michael began chasing Henry down the hall which led to the garage.
"I told you to just wait there!"
"Henry please! Don't tell me you're keeping what I think you're keeping!"
The door to the garage opened, and immediately, a long spindly form leapt out. Michael stumbled back in shock, landing on the floor as Henry stood in between him and the animatronic.
"It's alright! Everything's fine, no one's here to hurt anyone," the old man said in a confident, if not stern manner, as if talking to a child. The security puppet tilted its head inquisitively, looking between the two.
"Henry… what… what are you doing with that thing in your house?"
The old man sighed, "Michael… do you believe in the afterlife?"
"I'm no idiot, I know where you're going with this. The souls… trapped in the bodies of animatronics. This one has a soul inside of it, right?"
"That's right," he turned around, now looking Michael in the eyes.
"So… who's inside of this one?"
"It's Charlie. This is my daughter."
