WARNING THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION; I DO NOT OWN FIVE NIGHTS AT FREDDY. SCOTT CAWTHON IS THE LUCKY BASTARD OWNS ALL RIGHTS.
WARNING THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN THE FOLLOWING. RAPE, CHILD ABUSE, CHILD ABDUCTION, DRUGS AND ALCOHOL, GORE, MURDER, MENTAL ILLNESS, AND *Drags out glitter cannon* LEMONS. IF YOU DO NOT WANNA SEE HUMAN ON ANIMATRONICS. I SUGGEST YOU GO TO THE MLP STORIES. THEY GET FREAKY OVER THERE.*waggles eyebrows* Without further ado. *Fires Glitter Cannon On YOU* Enjoy
A Silent Scream
PRELUDE
October 14th, 1998
Salt Lake City, Utah
Mary's POV
I lie on the hospital bed, my eyes fixed upon the tiny, fragile being cradled in my arms. My newborn son. I should probably feel happy right now; all I could seem to feel at the moment was resentment and bitterness. I loathed him already.
The sterile scent of disinfectant fills the room, mingling with the faint cries from neighboring mothers and their perfect babies. The fluorescent lights cast an eerie glow upon us as if mocking my inability to escape this nightmare. I am trapped in a reality I never wanted to embrace.
"What are you going to name him?" a soft voice asks from beside me. It's Linda, the jovial nurse who had been tending to me for the past few days. She gazes at the baby with an expression of warmth and adoration that I struggle to comprehend.
I give her a disdainful look before answering through clenched teeth. "Phillip."
Linda raises an eyebrow but doesn't push any further. "Phillip," she repeats softly as if testing its weight on her tongue.
"I hope he grows up strong," Linda says wistfully, no doubt imagining a future filled with joy and happiness for the child.
But I know better. This world would chew him up and spit him out just like it did to me; I would make sure of that.
3 Days Later
Mary's POV
I lay on the stained mattress in my shitty trailer, staring up at the peeling ceiling. Home. After enduring the agonizing pain of childbirth, I was finally back where I belonged. With exhaustion creeping into every fiber of my being, I couldn't help but feel darkness settle over me. A tiny cry pierced the air, pulling me back from the brink of sleep. My son. How I despised him. He was a constant reminder of my failures, my brokenness. I didn't even know who his father was, and in all reality, it didn't matter. This child had ruined everything.
"Shut up!" I growled through gritted teeth and clenched fists.
My own mother's words echoed in my mind. She always said children were a blessing, a fresh start. But what did she know? Just like the rest of my family, she was long gone now—just a bunch of skeletons in the cold ground, forgotten memories.
Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled toward the crib wedged in one corner of the trailer. His screams stabbed at my eardrums like needles, fueling a fit of anger that boiled deep within me. His tiny face scrunched up as his cries intensified.
"Why won't you shut up?" The question hovered between us as tears streamed down my face; the crying had seemed to be nonstop with him.
I knew I loathed him with every fiber of my being—for being alive while those who loved me were dead and buried—but there was something about those innocent eyes that reminded me so painfully of what I once had. "Damn you," I hissed through clenched teeth as I scooped him up into my arms.
His cries softened as if knowing that beneath my cold exterior stood a heart still capable of love—if only for a moment. Rocking him gently in my arms, a flicker of warmth rushed through me as an idea formed. I would make him pay. Pay for taking everything away from me.
I looked down at him, his tiny fingers clutching my own, and a sinister grin curled on my lips.
"You see, my sweet Phillip? You will know the pain I've endured. You will carry the burden of my suffering."
He gurgled a response, oblivious to the hatred that swirled around him. It was in that moment, as I plotted my revenge against a child who knew nothing of the world that I felt something sinister awaken within me—dark energy was born in hatred and despair that night.
I closed my eyes and whispered words laced with bitterness and venom to him. A pact bound only by blood and malice. A mother's scorn.
In that instant, a cold breeze whipped through the room, extinguishing what little light remained. Shadows danced across the walls, their forms distorted. It didn't matter anymore who his father was or how he came into this world; he was mine to mold—a vessel for my vengeance.
I opened my eyes to a changed world where darkness enveloped every corner, and malevolence seeped from every crack in the walls. For as long as this child drew breath, he would know suffering beyond comprehension. The cries ceased abruptly, replaced by an unsettling silence punctuated only by whispered promises of despair and retribution.
And so it began—a mother's love twisted into a mother's scorn—a tale woven with horror and insidious intent.
December 25th, 2003
Salt Lake City, Utah
5 Years Old
Phillip's POV
I huddle in my tiny room; a closet turned into a makeshift bedroom. The darkness surrounds me, matching the bruises littering my body. With each breath, pain coursed through my chest, a constant reminder of the life I was trapped in. Through the thin walls, I hear the front door creak open. The sound sends shivers down my spine as I know what's coming next. My mom is back. She brings strange men home with her, men who smell like cheap liquor and desperation. I've learned to block out their low whispers and laughter, but tonight something is different.
Their voices drift closer to my closet door as they stand just outside. My mom speaks in slurred words, her voice rough from countless nights of substance abuse. "You got the stuff?" she asks eagerly.
"Yeah," the man replies, his voice deep and husky. "Just like you asked." The mention of "stuff" sends a chill through me. Drugs. They're talking about drugs again; it's a never-ending cycle. I know firsthand what those substances can do to a person and how much it changes them. "And what about...sex?" my mom asks hesitantly. The man chuckles darkly, his amusement echoing through the hallway. "Don't worry," he says lasciviously. "We'll have some fun."
"Tell me more," my mother urged eagerly, her high-pitched laughter jarring against the backdrop of our broken home. "It's pure ecstasy," the man responded. "One hit will take you to paradise." Paradise… a word so far removed from my reality that it felt like a cruel joke being played on me by fate itself. As their conversation continued outside, I clung to the harsh reality that had become my life. My mother's choices had condemned us both – her addiction feeding on her soul while leaving mine battered and bruised in its wake. Suddenly, their voices grew louder as they approached the door of my tiny hideaway. Panic surged through my veins, causing my heart to thump loudly in my chest.
I desperately searched for an escape route, but the small space offered none. "Where's your boy, Sarah?" the man asked, his voice laced with curiosity. "Oh, he's just a pest. I locked him up in his closet," my mother replied nonchalantly. My breath caught in my throat as the door swung open, and they stumbled their way inside. I shrank back, desperately hoping they wouldn't see me hiding in the shadows.
But luck was never on my side. "Well, well, well," the man sneered as he spotted me huddled in fear. "What's your name, kid?" I remained silent, unable to find words to respond. My voice had been silenced long ago, buried beneath layers of pain and humiliation. "Oh, come on now," he continued mockingly. "Don't be shy." "Leave him alone," my mother slurred, chuckling, seemingly unaffected by his sadistic amusement.
Without warning, he unleashed a swift kick to my body and laughed callously."Merry Christmas," he sneered maliciously. The pain radiated through me like fire as I choked back tears and suppressed any signs of weakness. Beside himself with amusement, my mother had joined in his laughter from somewhere right behind him. Silence enveloped the room once more as they disappeared down the hallway.
Their disregard for me was crushing, their laughter an ever-present reminder of my insignificance. Minutes stretched into eternity as I lay there, trapped within the confines of my own personal hell. The sounds of moans and grunts seeped through the walls, filling every inch of space with their sickening symphony. With every noise outside that closet, I felt myself sink further into despair. How had my life come to this? Was this all there was for me? A small room and a mother who didn't care?
October 14th, 2010
Salt Lake City, Utah
12 years Old
Phillip's POV
My eyelids fluttered open as I struggled to process what had just happened. Darkness embraced the space around me, and I could hear the soft creaking of the old trailer walls. My vision slowly adjusted, revealing the blood-soaked room. The horrific scene unfolded before me. I tried to scream, but only a faint gurgling sound came out. My hand instinctively reached for my throat, but it was too late. Blood welled up between my fingers as panic overwhelmed me. My mother had slit my throat because I snuck out of my closet to get some damn food. She loomed over me with a sinister glimmer in her eyes. This was beyond what usually happened.
Her face twisted into a maniacal grin as she relished in my pain and suffering. "This... this is all your fault!" she spat, venom dripping from every word. Tears mixed with blood streaming down my face as I gasped for air, choking on the words I desperately wanted to say. At that moment, I realized that this was not just about her hatred for me but about how her life had spiraled out of control. She continued her tirade with a voice filled with rage and resentment. "You ruined everything! You were never supposed to be born! You're a constant reminder of what went wrong in my life!" Her words had been repeated over the years, a broken record, really.
Her expression twisted into a cruel smile as she raised the blade to her neck. Her bloodshot eyes pierced mine as she whispered hoarsely, "I hope you remember this moment, happy birthday, my sweet Phillip."
Before my mind could comprehend what was about to happen, she brought the knife across her throat. Blood sprayed from her severed artery, splattering against our trashed trailer's cramped walls and carpet. As I lay there on the carpet, blood pouring from the open wound on my neck, I could feel something in my just snap; it had all been too much for me. My mother lay motionless in front of me, the knife she had used on me before turning it on herself still clutched in her lifeless hand.
Darkness began to creep into my vision, and my heart was pounding weakly in my chest. Suddenly, I heard a loud crash as someone kicked the door in and walked towards me. Through blurred eyes, I could make out a silhouette approaching through the haze of pain and despair. I couldn't see his face clearly, but there was an air of calmness surrounding him amidst the chaos.
"It's not your time yet," a voice said soothingly. "Stay with me." I tried to respond, but all that came out was a weak gurgle. The pain overwhelmed my senses, making it difficult to comprehend what was happening around me. But then I felt something pressed against my neck—the touch was calm and firm. It was as if this stranger had some way to slow down the bleeding. Thoughts flickered through my dying consciousness as he worked diligently above me, trying to save my life. Who was he? Why did he care at all?
And then, finally, relief washed over me as darkness consumed everything.
January 13th, 2013
Salt Lake City, Utah
14 Years Old
Phillip's POV
I watched the boys' dormitory, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. This was it. This was my chance to finally take control. I knew what needed to be done. It had been building inside of me for far too long. With a grim determination, I approached the bed where one of my tormentors lay peacefully asleep. His name was Ethan, a boy who took great pleasure in making my life miserable. But tonight, he would pay for his sins.
I clutched the pillow tightly, my knuckles turning white as I prepared myself mentally for what I was about to do. The scar on my neck throbbed, a constant reminder of the pain and humiliation I had endured. As I leaned over Ethan's motionless body, a mix of anger and satisfaction coursed through me. The time for vengeance had come. With every ounce of strength in me, I pressed the pillow against his face, feeling his struggles beneath me.
My mind swirled with dark thoughts—a twisted symphony playing in perfect harmony with every moment of suffocation Ethan suffered. Minutes passed that felt like an eternity until, finally, Ethan's movements subsided, and silence replaced the symphony of struggle and suffering. A profound sense of relief washed over me as if a heavy burden had been lifted from my scarred shoulders.
I carefully rearranged the scene to make it appear as though it were an accident—an unfortunate tragedy that no one could have foreseen. I wiped away any sign of struggle and gave one last look at Ethan's lifeless form before giggling to myself and slipping out of the room unnoticed.
One Month Later
Phillip's POV
As I walked through the iron gates of St. Mary's Orphanage, I couldn't help but feel a sense of freedom. Sure, I was leaving everything behind, but that was exactly what I wanted. The scar on my neck had robbed me of my voice, leaving me isolated and angry. Everyone at the orphanage seemed to have taken joy in tormenting me, pushing me further into madness.
I stepped onto the darkened streets, my heart pounding with exhilaration. No longer would I be confined to those suffocating walls; no longer would I endure the daily torture of those who mocked my silence. Now, it was time for a different kind of freedom. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a worn notebook. Its pages were filled with drawings - twisted images that reflected the darkness inside me. With a twisted grin, I picked up a pen and started drawing a smiley face on one page. It was ironic, really; something so innocent plastered on the gates of this place that held nothing but misery for me.
I carefully tore out the page and slapped it to the gate.
September 15th, 2022
Salt Lake City, Utah
24 Years Old
Phillip's POV
I woke up to the sound of rain gently tapping against the roof of my truck, accompanied by the rhythmic patter of droplets on the cracked pavement outside. The air was thick with the scent of wet asphalt and damp earth. My eyes fluttered open, heavy with the weight of another sleepless night spent in my makeshift bed, the truck's worn seats providing a meager pillow. Rubbing the stubble on my chin, I dragged myself upright, my entire body protesting against the late hour.
I reach for the pack of cigarettes on the dashboard and clumsily light one, the smoke curling lazily in the air. Sleeping in my truck has become the norm since I got kicked out of the homeless shelter. I had lost my temper when some dumbass had carelessly knocked into me, spilling my own hot coffee all over myself. My fist had lashed out instinctively, connecting squarely with the offender's jaw, dropping him like a fly. As satisfying as it felt, the instant expulsion from the shelter was a bitter consequence.
With a heavy sigh, I stepped out onto the wet pavement, my boots slightly sloshing water around the ground with each step. The rain started to soak through my worn-out jacket, chilling me to the bone. A car splashed by, indifferent to my presence, sending a wave of muddy water onto my pant legs. The anger bubbled up inside me, my teeth gritting, wishing I could drag the son of a bitch out of the car and beat them senseless.
Nature called, and I grudgingly trudged toward a dingy alleyway a block away, seeking solace behind worn-out bricks. As I relieved myself, I stared out into the gray abyss that stretched before me. Raindrops danced on puddles, distorting the reflection of the desolate cityscape surrounding this dingy corner of the world. It matched the gloom inside my heart, a dark echo of my existence.
The cigarette burned down to its filter, and I flicked it away, the ember disappearing into the murky puddle at my feet. Adjusting my collar, I started my journey towards the only place that could offer me a flicker of warmth on this dreary afternoon– the cafe. But I despised going there. It was a necessary evil, a reluctant sanctuary where I could charge my laptop and enjoy a decent cup of coffee.
The cafe came into view, its welcoming glow clashing against the cruel gray of the gloomy sky. I stepped through the door, a gust of warm air enveloping me, momentarily pushing away the chill that had settled deep within. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the tang of roasted beans, lifting my spirits just a fraction.
The barista, a young woman with a perpetually sour expression etched onto her face, barely spared me a glance. She had perfected the art of disdainful indifference in our brief interactions. Ignoring her dismissive gaze, I made my way to the far corner of the café, my notepad and laptop clenched tightly in my hand.
I ordered my usual - a strong black coffee - and settled down at a dimly-lit corner table. The worn wooden surface was a familiar sight by now, marred by years of spilled drinks and restless customers. My fingers traced the grooves and scratches, drawing energy from the connection to countless others who had passed through this place.
Barely acknowledging my presence, a scowl etched deep lines across the barista's face as she handed me my coffee. The mug's warmth seeped through my fingertips, soothing my frayed nerves.
As I plugged in my laptop at the corner table of the cafe, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, filling my senses. The patrons bustled about, their laughter and cheerful banter like needles pricking at my frayed nerves. I glanced at the barista, a bright smile plastered on her face as she effortlessly charmed each customer. It made me sick to my stomach.
The same barista who had treated me with such disdain just minutes ago now basked in the adoration of these mindless, happy people. It made me want to unleash my anger and let lose the frustrations gnawing at my soul. Thoughts of slitting her tires filled my mind, a small act of revenge to release some of the pent-up fury I carried within me. Picking up my notepad, I scribbled curses and obscenities, releasing my rage onto the paper. A fellow café-goer glanced in my direction, pity and disgust mingling in their eyes. I crumpled the paper and shoved it into my pocket, a futile attempt to hide the frustration boiling in me.
As I opened my laptop, the harsh glare of the screen pierced through the dimly lit café. My inbox overflowed with rejection emails. Handyman jobs, my only escape from this wretched existence, were slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. The world seemed intent on keeping me trapped in this web of misery. As I focused on the laptop screen, images of happy families and well-dressed professionals infiltrated my field of vision. All those people, privileged and oblivious to the struggles of others, mocked me with their success and contentment.
I hated them, each and every one of them. A familiar ping interrupted my thoughts as I absentmindedly stirred my coffee with a small silver spoon. An email notification popped up on the laptop, breaking the monotony of my solitude. I glanced at the subject line; It was from Fazbear Entertainment. The subject line read: "The Legend Revived." My curiosity was piqued, and excitement and trepidation coursed through my veins. What could this be about? I opened the email and read the contents.
To: SilentPhillip69
From: Fazbear_Entertainment
Subject: The Legend Revived
Dear Phillip,
We hope you're doing well. We have come across your exceptional reputation as a handyman and believe you would be the perfect fit for a particular project we have in mind. We at Fazbear Entertainment, Inc, are looking to reopen our beloved establishment in a new location. The original building, open from 1988 to 1993, holds a special place in our hearts, but it was burnt down. We'd like to offer you a position to fix up the long-abandoned building, making sure it's safe and ready for our grand reopening. The animatronics have undergone significant upgrades over the past 29 years, making them more advanced than ever. They are eager to entertain a whole new generation of children. The pay rate is $40 per hour, and we expect the project to take several months. Also, we would like to ask you to live on the property during the renovation to ensure the updated animatronics are safe. If you are interested, please reply by the end of the week. Thank you.
Please let us know your thoughts as soon as possible. We are excited to hear back from you.
Best regards,
Fazbear Entertainment
As I read the email, my heart quickened with a potent mix of curiosity and trepidation. The words on the screen spoke of a time long forgotten, from 1988 to 1993, and something about it hooked me deep within my soul. Despite my usual aversion to people and the world at large, I found myself compelled to reply. The pay alone was enough to get my attention. With trembling fingers, I carefully tapped out my response, attempting to convey both my eagerness and the doubts that lingered in the recesses of my mind.
"I am indeed interested," I wrote, my words dancing across the keyboard. I hoped they would adequately express the conflicting emotions churning within me. To my surprise, the reply came swiftly, as if the sender had anxiously awaited my response. Within moments, a new message materialized before my eyes, urging me to be in Hurricane, Utah, within two days. There, I would meet someone, sign waivers, wade through mountains of paperwork, and be given a tour of the building.
Driven by an insatiable thirst for answers, my fingers again danced across the keyboard. I delved into the depths of the internet, unearthing old news articles that recounted a dark past. The stories sent shivers down my spine, revealing horrifying incidents that had plagued the establishment from 1988 to 1993. Once innocent symbols of childhood joy, the animatronics had transformed into nightmarish spectacles, twisted by malfunctions and sinister events. However, the company had claimed to have upgraded the animatronics over the last twenty-nine years.
Could they have managed to cleanse the inherent darkness that had tainted these iconic characters? The sound of rain pitter-pattering against the cafe's windows filled the air as I sat alone at a small table, my fingers curling around the warm mug of coffee. The bitter taste jolted through my senses, awakening me from the solitude that had become my comfort. I glanced around the dimly lit room, observing the fragmented conversations and distant laughter mingling with the gentle hum of the espresso machine.
Each table was occupied by people, their faces animated with life, but to me, they were distant echoes, irrelevant and lost in their own worlds. As I closed my laptop, the browser filled with silent words and untold stories, the same barista, a seemingly permanent scowl etched across her face, approached my table with a half-hearted smile. She had judged me the moment I walked in, her eyes narrowing as if I were just another strange man disturbing her pristine establishment.
"You ready to leave?" she said, her voice dripping with disdain. I stared into her eyes, searching for the flicker of empathy buried deep within her soul. Finding none, I showed her my middle finger, a crude gesture that conveyed my annoyance at her shitty attitude. Stepping outside the cafe, the rain began to pelt against my already-soaked jacket. I pondered the email I had received from Fazbear Entertainment, a flicker of hope amidst the misery that clung to my every step. Why Hurricane? Why had they chosen me?
These questions haunted my thoughts, mixing with the cascading raindrops like an unresolved melody. With the resignation of a wanderer who had failed at the art of human interaction, I made up my mind. I needed a job. I needed something to anchor me in this shitty existence, even if it meant stepping into the unknown. The allure of Fazbear Entertainment's offer was undeniable, and I couldn't resist its call.
Phillip's POV
I trudged through the rain, each step heavy with the weight of my troubled thoughts about this job. The alley stretched before me, a dimly lit path leading to my only means of escape - a black 1985 GMC truck. As I approached, the sight of it brought a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and gratitude.
This truck was more than just a mode of transportation; it held the essence of Jenkins, the old man who had taken me under his wing when I had fled from the suffocating walls of the orphanage years ago. Jenkins had been my mentor, my guide, and my confidant. He had seen past my inability to express myself with words and had understood me on a level that no one else ever had. He never questioned my struggles with empathy or my disdain for human company; instead, he had accepted me, flaws and all. Allowing me to live and work with them for around eight years had been an enormous respite.
When he passed away last year, he left me this truck as a tangible reminder of his unwavering faith in me. Leaning against the side of the truck, raindrops mingling with the smoke of my cigarette, I couldn't help but reflect on the profound impact Jenkins had on my life. He had taught me the intricacies of mechanics and the art of fixing things, passing down his knowledge as if desperate to leave his mark on someone before his time ran out.
Inhaling deeply, I exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching as it swirled and dissipated into the rain. The ethereal dance of the shadows cast by the dim streetlights offered a strange comfort to my troubled mind. With one last drag, I released the pent-up frustrations and fears that had been building within me. With a shiver, I hauled myself into the truck, desperate to escape the relentless downpour. My hand twisted the key in the ignition, unleashing a thunderous roar from the engine.
Hurricane, Utah loomed in my thoughts, a haunting destination that demanded my presence. Determined to find the fastest route out of Salt Lake City, I fished out my smartphone from my pocket, its icy touch sending a chill down my spine. As I opened Google Maps, a glimmer in the rearview mirror caught my attention, forcing me to confront the worn-out face staring back at me.
My weary green eyes were burdened with dark circles, a testament to the countless sleepless nights that haunted me. Raindrops clung to the stubble on my chin, adding a ruggedness to my appearance that matched my indifference toward my outward image. But it was the scar etched across my neck that truly defined me, a permanent reminder of the horrifying encounter with the crazy bitch I had once called mother.
Author's Note
Well, I hope you all enjoyed the Prelude Chapter. Things will only get more intense from here. Please leave a review and let me know your honest opinions or if you want to see anything added. I want to integrate ideas from all of you into the story. I hope I portrayed Phillip's slipping grasp on humanity in this chapter; I'm going for batshit crazy with a touch of homicidal tendencies. I try to be tedious with grammar, I may miss something, so I would love a beta reader who can point out mistakes and improve bits and pieces.
Apologies to those who have read this already, But after I posted and worked on the next chapter, I became unhappy with how this chapter had turned out. I changed the name from Phillip to Phillip because it felt wrong to portray a Phillip Schmidt that was FAR different. Plus, I want to have Phillip Schmidt make an appearance later in the story, so once again, I am sorry.
Author's Author's Note
If you want to read a finished FNAF that will grip you by your nether region, I recommend A Fun Weekend at Freddy's By PyroFox117. It's a fantastic series, and with his permission, I have brought one of his OCs over. Can you read his story and guess who it will be?