Chapter eighteen: Just some trick

The silence in the apartment felt thicker than usual, as Douglas sat on his chair with another glass of juice. The silence wasn't unfamiliar—he seldom had anyone over—but something had changed. He hadn't been able to sleep at all, for starters.

It had been days since he'd quit his job. One day since he'd fought with his father. Two things he hadn't expected to happen. Things he didn't want to happen.

For what felt like the hundredth time, he glanced at the clock. 09:00.

Good.

He grabbed his phone. They should be open by now, and he hadn't had the chance to explain himself yet. He couldn't let Nicholas know about his lingering ties to the restaurant, but at least he could give them a call.

"No need."

He froze upon hearing the familiar disembodied voice. "Golden…?"

"Heya."

"… Where'd you go yesterday?" The question left him before he could stop it.

"I was, erm…busy," she said quickly. "I didn't have time to talk."

He frowned. Though he couldn't see her, she seemed oddly…official? She spoke quickly, her tone absentminded as if she was focusing on something else.

"Golden?"

"Yeah?"

"It's good to hear from you."

She remained silent for a moment. "Yeah," she finally said, her tone soft. "You too."

He nodded. "How're the others?"

"Well…" She fell silent.

"… They didn't take it well?"

"You could say that. I don't think they're convinced that you'll be back."

Douglas sighed. She seemed awfully optimistic about that, though. "Golden, if my father knows I'm going back to the restaurant…"

"It won't matter."

"Yes, it will. You've seen what he's prepared to do."

She remained silent for a moment. "I need to go. I've got other things to take care of. You…stay where you are for now, until I tell you it's safe to come back."

Douglas paused. "Wait, what do you…?"

"Gotta go now!"

And with that, she was gone.


11:48 p.m.

Paul observed the restaurant from his car. He wasn't scared of being spotted; the windows were covered with metal shutters. Part of Griffiths' routine of locking the place up, he reckoned; he'd seen the manager leave, earlier. Besides that, he saw one camera outside he could easily avoid.

Paul felt apprehension as he looked at the building. He had done things like these before. Not particularly often, but he had. This time was different though; he was up against something he'd never faced previously. Something no one—barring those nightguards—had ever faced.

He felt his holster and the gun that sat in it. He then glanced to his trusty set of lockpicks on the passenger seat.

What am I going to do? he thought. Go in there, guns blazing?

That was essentially his plan. Get in there, shoot any animatronics that got too close, and find answers somewhere. Probably in Griffiths' office. He'd rather remain undetected, but what were the chances of that happening?

His watch beeped. It just hit twelve.

He took a deep breath. With a gloved hand, he grabbed his lockpicks and stepped out of the car.

He approached the front door, glancing around to ensure no one was watching him. It took him a few minutes to pick the lock.

When it finally clicked, he swiftly made his way inside. He was met by a moderately sized room, with dining tables and a single curtained stage. Paul eyed the opening in the wall that led to a corridor. If his experience at the warehouse was any indication, an animatronic could just enter the room at any moment and he'd be spotted…

He scurried over to a door in the side. Griffiths' office. He tried it, and thankfully it opened. Seemed Griffiths wasn't concerned about the animatronics poking around in there. Or intruders, for that matter.

He entered and shut the door behind him as quietly as he could. He was met with a small room containing a simple wooden desk with a computer on it. No decorations, no pictures, no nothing. It was as if this restaurant was Griffiths' entire life.

Paul rounded the desk and booted up the computer. He winced at the bleeps and whirrs it emitted as it came to life. What if those animatronics heard it? He half expected to hear hurried footsteps from outside, but thankfully the silence held fast.

While waiting for the computer to start up fully, he swiped the desk drawers. Nothing but paperwork and some pens.

Finally, Paul looked at the screen and sighed. A password. Of course.

"Need some help?"

Paul stood and whirled around, reaching for his gun. The first thing he noticed was the animatronic in front of him. Then he realized his holster was empty.

He stumbled back. Desperately he grabbed his flashlight and raised it like a weapon.

The animatronic looked back, disinterested. Paul didn't recognize it. It resembled Freddy the bear, but with a yellow motif rather than the usual brown. Its formal attire was also similar, albeit visibly aged and worn. It even had a top hat balancing between two bear ears.

Its eyes were two pinpricks of light, looking right at him through a mass of darkness.

It leaned against the wall, casually holding his gun in one hand.

"I know his password," it finally spoke. "You want me to log in for you?"

Paul stared at it. Could he outrun this thing?

Finally it stepped over to the computer and typed something, moving with deceptively humanlike mannerisms the whole time. Moments later, the screen turned to a desktop with a basic blue background. The animatronic stepped back and gestured for Paul to have a look at the screen.

Paul didn't move.

"Relax," it said, waving the gun. "If I wanted to hurt you, I could've done it already. You think I didn't learn anything from your last visit? Everyone in the building knows you're here." Its gaze darkened. "And they all want a piece of you."

Paul swallowed.

"Luckily, I convinced them to back off, so you're welcome. Now…" It gestured to the computer. "Sit."

It wasn't a request.

Paul took a ragged breath, feeling sweat forming on his head. He was trapped. It hadn't hurt him so far, but he knew it still might. Could he run…?

He slowly made his way over to the desk and sat down. Finally, defying all his instincts, he averted his gaze from the animatronic and turned to the computer before him.

"What am I looking for?" he asked quietly.

It let out a chuckle. "I'm not the detective here."

He glanced at it. He slowly raised trembling hands to the mouse and keyboard. "Where do I look?"

"Shouldn't you know that, too?" It chuckled again. "Are you saying you came in here without a real plan?"

Paul froze when it placed its head on his shoulder, its hands on the desk. Paul eyed the one with the gun in it.

"Do you even have a warrant for this, Mr. Mortar?" it taunted quietly, tracing a finger over his hand. "Well, if the police don't know you're here…"

"What do you want?" Paul blurted out.

A giggle. "I thought you were here because you wanted something…" It stood up straight. "The truth is, Mr. Mortar, that this all started with a misunderstanding, more or less… A misunderstanding made you shoot those animatronics in the warehouse."

He swallowed.

"And now our nightguard has quit his job…" the thing continued. "You know, I'm almost thankful you didn't stop your investigation when Nicholas told you to, because we wouldn't be having this conversation otherwise."

Paul shook his head. "No…" Against his better judgment, he turned to look it in its dark eyes. "No, no. This is just some trick, left behind by Griffiths to scare off intruders." He stood up. The thing definitely acted sapient, but…

It stared back amused. "Is it?"

He said nothing.

It looked him in the eye. "Look closely."

Silence fell. Their gazes were locked. The air was still. Paul did his best to keep his breathing from turning even more erratic. It couldn't do anything to him. This was just another part of—

It was gone.

Paul blinked. The robot…was gone.

He whirled around to scan the room. What was…?! Had he imagined it?! No, no, that couldn't be; his gun was still gone. He was sure it was still in his holster when he entered the office.

Yet the animatronic had vanished before his very eyes.

Paul scrambled to the door. He had to get out of there.

He busted out into the dining room. Voices, coming from the hallway!

He all but ran to the front door and burst outside. He turned around—and was met with the golden bear staring at him through the door windows, giving a taunting wave.

Paul scrambled to his car.

Minutes later he was on the road. His knuckles were white with how tightly he gripped the wheel. He forced himself to focus on the road, trying not to pay any mind to the movements he thought he saw in the shadows around him. Was it still following?! Could it follow? He couldn't check. He didn't want to check…

Finally he drove up to his home. He was just about to leave his car when he noticed something. Something, resting on the backseat.

It was his gun. With a top hat next to it.

He stared at it. That top hat… Was it the same one…?

He grabbed his pistol and examined it, as if it could explode at any moment. He hesitantly removed and reinserted the clip, but nothing happened. Finally he holstered it.

Then he tentatively lifted the hat, revealing a folded-up piece of paper underneath.

The warehouse – tomorrow, 10:00 a.m..

Keep a close eye on the road.