Wednesday, August 16, 2017, 9:30 AM
It was almost upon them. Less than a week until Mike and his friends got in their cars and drove to their deaths. He wasn't sure how he felt at any given moment: confident, terrified, angry, manic. He was just along for the ride and trying to hold himself together so his emotions didn't spill across the restaurant like a fallen plate of spaghetti.
Intonating a "song" from some distant part of the cosmos that felt like his throat was being torn out marginally helped.
"Ulhi'gnp lhfm'agwn uhhtucl el'ryh lgnaaw'gh ngfhta!" he and his friends chittered at once. It sounded like a chant to summon a demon from the pits of Hell. In reality, it was to kill a demon from the opposite direction. If there was any justice in the universe, though, Hell was where he'd end up. He shuddered at the words, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
As they did this, Mike remembered a stack of documents he procured for Mary during the ENNARD incident, from which she learned that Auric figured out the secrets of necromancy after reading a book from the Akashic Records penned by the eldritch inhabitants of a "pestilential ghoul world" at the edge of reality. Half of those words still made his head spin. He wondered if this chant or magic came from the same place or somewhere similar. Surely it existed in that cosmic library that mere humans couldn't enter, if nowhere else.
The skeleton Sylvia gave him had been ritually prepared. The bones were brushed with a tincture of pine oil and bromine. Mike wondered how "the ancients" discovered this very specific combination of words, materials and movements. Like, who the fuck would attempt this? Even if somebody on Earth found out about this from the Public Library of the Entire Universe, someone on another planet had to independently discover it first, then create an entry for other people, and so on. He realized he made many assumptions, but whatever. At least it kept his mind off imminent doom.
"Hayh, guinl a'wnhfl g'nhharp grar'oel alayi lhwa-ynsg' hgota, rr'eo hay'h gnliu yaaahuar akakn'yr!" His hands were raised, and if he didn't know better, he could swear he felt some kind of wind whip around the room. Tried not to bite his tongue as he pondered what all this meant. As a religious man, he half-wondered whether this was actually evil magic - the skull staring at him didn't help - and he sold part of his soul to Satan every time he did this.
He really didn't think this was part of any religious system or dichotomy, though, and he thought about it a lot. Like Auric himself, it seemed to be outside the rules that everyone and everything else played by.
"'Kan sbtsleal'n heeroy hbuhgn'agh-riputs wn nadog ay hnag g'hphnra ha hgrlhi aghto fmaa'hl ogdna nf'sh'u iiy-hr ygnmth ht'ngf iirh gsuhg sauoghatgt!" With that last utterance, Mike stepped forward, ceremonial cold iron dagger in hand, and stabbed the meteor placed between the skeleton's rib cage, right where a heart used to be. The "honor", it was decided, should be his. The stone was at the center of the circle of salt, herbs and charcoal. Mike noticed those tended to be the common ingredients of choice for Auric, so there must have been great power in them. This time, they were even more potent because they had been mixed with dust-form rare earth elements.
He took a breath and stood up, hands on his hips. He felt a frown form as he surveyed the room. His friends were all exhausted; they'd practiced nonstop for three hours and would keep doing so for at least another three. It needed to be drilled into all their heads, though, including his. One wrong syllable would render it all impotent.
"Again," he demanded, voice hoarse from sounds a human throat was never meant to make. The animatronics had an advantage there (and most places) because they artificially produced sound from speakers instead of shaping it with organs.
Cringed at how hard it came out, too. He sounded more like a drill sergeant barking orders than someone who cared about people. Everyone seemed to understand, yet he wondered how long their patience would last.
Before they reset the clock, Chica asked, "Isn't it really fucked up that we're desecrating some guy's body because we need it for this?"
"You answered your own question," June said.
"Yeah, but this still feels wrong. I know there's no other way, but that doesn't mean any of this is right." Hey, she said what Mike thought, and probably everyone else, too.
"There is no need to fight." Mary stepped in, her hands raised slightly. "All of us are on the same side."
Freddy scoffed. "Much as I'd like to believe that, you tried to keep the fact that this'll probably kill us secret. How do we know there's more you aren't hiding more from us?" Mary turned to her brother, appalled that he'd say such a thing.
"Actually, let's take, uh, five!" Mike shouted, dragging Mary away. He tried not to betray how rattled he was. Tensions ran high. Everyone just needed to keep a lid on it for a few more days. Not even a week to go. Bonnie tried to talk to his brother, but he'd already stomped off. Mike needed a minute alone, too, so he retreated to Pirate Cove as discreetly as he could. Once there, he slumped against the wooden stage, putting his head in his hands.
This is a nightmare. He admitted that much went right, yet it seemed like everything went wrong.
Question of Satanism aside, yeah, it was bad. Not just the graverobbing (which was still the worst part), but the fact this stole so much time and energy from them. He worried the way he drove them made him a worse friend. Life was short, and every minute was precious, Mike learned. A month was a big chunk of it, so spending all that time ensconced in cocoons of worry, working each other into fits, mattered a lot. It took almost all the money he'd ever saved from him, too.
Mike wasn't a miser. He knew he could earn it back, even if it took years. He had friends, family and other people he could rely on if he ran into dire times. But there were so many other things he could have done with it. He wished he could have given it to worthy causes instead of needing to spend it on gold and meteors and bags of rare spices. Maybe he could recoup at least a fraction of their costs by reselling them and donate the proceeds to an organization that'd use it for something worthwhile.
And that was only a fraction of the angst consuming him. It took him back to when he was a teenager. While he was much too conventional to get into it, emo culture was pretty big among people his age in the very late 90s and early aughts. Knew a few of them when he was in college. A lot of it was purely aesthetic, but the main idea, from what he understood, was to express the sadness and darker emotions that most people, Mike included, suppressed.
He didn't fully "get it" at the time, even after all the tribulations of that first summer. Despite the dangers and how scared he'd been, his actions were to keep himself and the people he loved alive. Right now, none of this needed to happen. It was the right thing to do, but it was also optional. They could have ignored Auric and lived the rest of their lives in relative safety. They chose to be heroes, which made the pain worse. And, as the person to tell them, Mike forced them to make that choice. It was right to inform them, yet it still came down to him.
There was too much. Mike sighed, opening his eyes. When he did, the first thing he saw was Foxy waiting. Not over him, but on the ground beside him. She wasn't happy with how this went, either, but she was ready to dive back in. And if she was, he needed to be.
"Hi," he gasped, only a little surprised to see her. Her stealthiness was second to none. She didn't need to reply, just smiling instead. Five more days, he told himself, rousing to wakefulness in this prison cell. And five more nights.
6:00 PM
Foxy sat next to Mike in her personal alcove, resting her hand on his knee. Her eyelid fluttered closed, only letting hints of light in. It was at times like this when she became dimly aware she only saw half a world. There was another half which would always be in eternal blackness thanks to a spike her brother shoved into her head as she tried to kill him.
She didn't mind. June said she was pretty sure it could be fixed like her jaw had been, since she was ultimately a machine, but Foxy opted to remain the way she was. It served as a reminder of her past. Mike taught her that it made her the person she was, even if it didn't define her, and that she didn't need to be ashamed of it.
She would have gone to bed, but she knew she wasn't tired enough to sleep yet. If she tried, she'd be bombarded by all the worries she wanted to keep at bay. That'd snap her to wakefulness, and she wouldn't get any rest. There was still so much to do. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, feeling her ears and tail flick back and forth in an instinctual vulpine fear response. Foxes may have been predators, but they weren't apex predators.
Every syllable and movement needed to be flawless. As it was, she thought they only hit that threshold 50 percent of the time, perhaps a little more. It needed to be as close to perfection as possible. Might have enough time if they screwed up once during the real thing, yet they'd be so shaken in that moment that she doubted it'd work the second.
She squeezed Mike's knee gently, and he responded by petting the fur on her head the way only he could. It made her warm inside. Mike supported her as she helped him. That was her favorite part about being married, more than passion or romance; both knew they could always count on each other for strength. It was like they were invincible when together. I hope that's true now.
Mike shifted up in his beanbag chair, and the room's light gently increased from him flipping his iPhone on.
"What's up?" she asked. It may have been nothing; he could have just wanted to check the weather.
"Sylvia texted me earlier today, saying she wanted to, like, talk tonight." This would be the first time Mike talked to his sister since the skeleton incident, Foxy believed. "I'm calling her now."
"Mind if I'm on the call, too?" Foxy didn't exactly get out much for "family reunions". Only saw Sylvia during Christmas when she came to visit Mike. She sighed, fondly remembering the earlier holiday seasons where the poor woman was among impossible things that were nevertheless family to her brother. Even if she weren't Mike's sister, they still considered her a hero for answering the call when they needed her. Of course, it was Phil she saved, but they didn't know that at the time.
Sylvia never quite became used to them, but she was at least able to make pleasant small talk more as the years went by. Even if she couldn't understand them, she could at least respect them and their existence, which was the most Foxy could ask from any human.
"That's fine," he said, scrolling to her contact information and putting the phone on speaker as it rang. No way he was going to make this a video call with them huddled in the dark. His sister answered after the second ring.
"Hey, Mike," she said, sounding grim. She'd tracked time, too.
"Hey, Syl! Great to talk to you, um, again. Foxy's here, too."
"Hi, Foxy. It's been a little while." She sighed, and Foxy imagined her taking a drink as she did. "I'll tell you why I wanted you to call without beating around the bush: I'd like to help." Foxy looked at Mike uncomfortably, then back at the phone. Mike bit his lip.
"Syl, I'm sorry, but that's n-not possible anymore." That ship had sailed. Even if she wanted to, there wasn't enough time to educate her on all this intricate nonsense. It took them hours of training a day for a month. She couldn't hope to do it in less than a week, no matter how smart she was.
"I know. I regret not agreeing when you asked at the beginning of this." She sounded so dejected; Foxy wished she were with them so their words had more weight. "I would have hated taking off and not giving my husband a good answer, but I could have done it, even if it made him think I was having an affair." Speaking of which, that made Foxy wonder where Sylvia called from. Somewhere her husband wasn't, certainly. "Now I know how you felt all those times you gave me the runaround about what you were doing at your restaurant! Anyway, seeing what Auric did to that girl… it's what made me change my mind."
As it would for anyone. That was a huge escalation, at least in her mind. Auric never killed children before. Well, he definitely had in his billions of years of existence, but not for the whole time he worked with Phil and Afton. It always seemed to be a boundary, even if an incidental one. He just didn't have the chance for a while. In fact, considering how maimed Alejandra's body supposedly was, he may have enjoyed killing kids more than adults.
It was worse than anything Foxy ever remembered doing while Auric possessed her - though, thankfully, she didn't remember much.
"So I did the only thing I could think of to help," Sylvia continued. "Check your email, Mike."
"Uh, OK?" Foxy leaned over to look at the screen as Mike opened the email app. There were a few spam messages and push notifications, which he swiftly deleted. The most recent email was different. Sylvia forwarded Mike something, which he opened. It was an automated thank-you note for donating to United Way of Central Washington - the local branch of that big charity. Specifically, the donation would help impoverished children in the region. Well, that was nice. Foxy's eye only widened when she saw how much money changed hands.
10,000 dollars?! she thought, trying not to shout the number aloud. Mike's jaw was on the floor. It wasn't nearly as much as he spent to collect all this miscellaneous high-quality junk, but his life depended on him spending that money. Sylvia didn't need to be this generous.
"Syl, I don't know what to say. You didn't have to - "
"You're wrong. I did have to," she demanded. "Doctors make a lot of money, and I can tell you what I need to do with it; I don't do enough, that's for sure." Yeah, doctors made more than Mike did, but this was still a lot. Foxy knew she only finished paying off loans from college and medical school a few years prior. "I might not be able to physically help right now, but I can give to the kinds of things you care about."
"I'm humbled. Thank you," Mike said, light from the phone illuminating his shocked expression.
"There's more." Another email popped up indicating a donation. An additional 10,000 dollars to…
"What's this?" Foxy asked, seeing the Jolly Roger as a banner across the screen. Some pirate reenactment society?
"I put that in your name, Foxy," Sylvia answered. "It's a pirate-themed charity in Indiana that helps kids with special needs. It was the only pirate charity I could find. Except a couple dedicated to maintaining actual, historical pirate ships, but I figured helping kids would be more important to you."
"A lot more important," she answered without hesitation, feeling relief that Sylvia hadn't spent an additional 10,000 dollars on keeping old timbers afloat. Look, she loved pirates. But piracy (excluding the Internet kind) was a thing of the past - well, except in Somalia, where it cropped up from time to time. It was dead. But kids were alive and needed help. Maybe 20,000 dollars total from a kind soul like her would help push back the darkness for them.
"I don't know what to say, except thank you," Foxy choked out, still trying to come out of shock. This was so kind. More than that, it reminded her that there were people outside the restaurant who cared about them and wanted them to come home.
"You're welcome," she answered, sounding emotional, too. "Mike, call me right after you put two in the back of Auric's head or whatever you'll do to him," she continued. "If you don't by the night of August 21, I don't know what I'll do. Start planning funeral arrangements, I guess."
Foxy said nothing, nor did Mike. She knew Sylvia was serious, so she supposed she appreciated the offer. Well, it didn't matter if the world learned about them after they were all dead. But that money would go to the people who needed it no matter what. So that was something. Not much, but something.
"Anyway, it was great talking to you, but - "
"Wait!" Foxy exclaimed before Sylvia finished that thought. "I don't know if we'll ever speak to you again, like you said. So, do you want to just talk?" So little had really been said. There was a moment of silence as Sylvia processed the question, but she quickly spoke again.
"Yeah, actually. I'd like that a lot." Mike smiled in the corner of her eye.
So they talked. Not about anything in particular, though Sylvia was the main focus because the woman already knew exactly what they were up to. It was mundane: car trouble, anecdotes about her job, and so on. That was all right with Foxy. She desperately wanted a sense of normality, since that escaped her for the last month, no matter how much she tried to grab it. All good things came to an end, though, which they did when Sylvia's husband got home from work. Mike quickly said hello to him before they hopped off for the night.
"Uh, have a nice night, Syl," he halfheartedly said. His sister wished him the same, which left them in darkness. It all came full circle. Foxy's ears and tail were still on edge, as if a predator were behind her. Nothing had changed - except that they were now an hour closer to doom.
"Ready to go to bed now?" Mike asked.
"More than I was a minute ago," she answered as both stood and walked toward her cabin. Mike wasn't going home at this hour. She didn't know how she'd get through five more nights. Five nights, she thought, shaking her head. Such mundane words with more power than all the gibberish they learned. That phrase could go to Hell with Auric.
8:15 PM
Phil stood still and tried to look creepy. Pulled his lips back to bare his teeth, made his ears stand up as straight as they could, and hunched over like some kind of gremlin. It was less about actively jumping out to yell "boo" and more about creating a certain ambiance.
That was most of what he did during operating hours. It would have shamed him to do anything related to terrifying people, even if that was the point of the park. He didn't have the heart to frighten people too badly anymore, despite that being what they wanted. Still, he managed to muster some halfhearted growls to try and fit in - standing around and being friendly would make people ask far more questions. Even shot the breeze with the employees from time to time, since they weren't really allowed to talk to the guests unless the customer engaged first.
This was his way of repenting. He had no money to donate to charity, and he obviously couldn't work in a soup kitchen. The most it was possible to atone by was making other people get their money's worth.
He crept along the boardwalk, which was pretty thick with people even this early in the season. It'd be packed by the time October rolled around and stuffed to bursting on Halloween. He chuckled to himself as he remembered Halloween of last year; some intoxicated jackass climbed onto one of the buildings and threatened to jump unless the park released the "classified documents" about the animatronics to WikiLeaks. Not a long enough drop to kill her, probably, but enough to break her legs and permanently crippled her.
Phil had been horrified, but most people just laughed at the ultimatum. It took the fire and police departments to get her down, and the whole thing was good, morbid publicity (so scary people kill themselves over it!) for the rest of the season, which was exactly the sort of edgy shit management loved. Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened in the week they'd been open. It was just a bunch of teenagers and young adults having fun. Barely anyone over 45 (well, he was technically older than that), but some people brought kids, which he thought was irresponsible.
Even if people thought this was just pretend, the haunted houses had tableaus of people being strung up and tortured, and he'd heard there was a bas relief depicting an animatronic made of rotting, gangrenous flesh in the one dedicated to him (which he had still never entered)… yeah, this place kind of went off the rails when it came to the "lore", such that it was.
He walked along, gently spooking those he came across. Mostly, he appreciated the night. It was warm and comfortably humid, but not muggy. A few fireflies flitted about, which he always found fascinating. His lackadaisical attitude didn't get anywhere near as many screams as the guy dressed as Freddy, running around with a cleaver and a severed head prop, which was the point. Still elicited a huge shriek from some guy by accidentally bumping into him, though.
The night rolled on. In the back of his mind, he knew he'd only have five more nights like this. He giggled to himself, which upped the fright factor; his chuckle was raw and off-kilter from so long spent without laughing. In this state, a few teenage boys, who, from the smell of them, recently put stuff into their bodies they shouldn't have, walked together just in front of him.
"Bro, I can't imagine how crazy it'd be to have actually worked at that place when it was still around," one explained, his breath reeking of marijuana. Phil used the stuff to take the edge off a couple times since it became legal in Washington in 2012 - not that he cared about the law, but it was easier to break into a dispensary under cover of darkness than pickpocket a dealer. In any case, this kid was clearly underaged.
Wow, a kid smoking weed, I'm so shocked, Phil sarcastically thought. Didn't know why he cared so much when, again, he used to kill people.
"Come on, don't tell me you actually think this BS was real. It's just a creepypasta," one of his companions argued. This one more smelled of alcohol that he tried to cover up with mouthwash.
"It's true, Art Bell did a whole episode about it on his podcast, one of his last before he died." That was a name Phil hadn't heard in a while. "That Fazbear guy turned his animatronics into remote-operated drones and used them to kill hundreds of people over the years until he got brought down by one of the guards. But the government covered it up because Fazbear was tight with Bill Gates, and they didn't want to piss off someone that rich." Well… most of that was wrong, but it was surprisingly close to the truth for a conspiracy theory.
Is it really a conspiracy if it happened?
The third teen boy said, "I don't care whether it happened or not, but holy shit, that was badass. Like, did you guys see the animatronic of the guy getting his arm ripped off that shot pressurized blood out of the stump?! How the fuck did they design that?" He was quick to add, "It didn't scare me, but it was awesome."
Phil grumbled to himself under his breath. This was simultaneously his most and least favorite time of the year. "Most" because he got to interact with people who thought he was a regular guy. "Least" because some of these people enjoyed the violence. It was one thing if they believed it to be fake, but some people thought it was real and believed that he, a killer, was the hero of this story for one reason or another. Too many people rooted for the bad guys. Of course, he recognized the massive hypocrisy in being horrified by the mere idea of death being cool when he was responsible for all of it.
He wasn't going to say anything, of course. It was none of his business what they thought. What did irk him was one of the teens pulling a beer can out of his pocket and cracking it open.
"Hey, knock it off," Phil said before thinking about the consequences.
The teen scoffed and turned toward him, completely unfazed by a rabbit guy about to give him a PSA. Well, he and his friends just went into a haunted house Phil never found the courage to enter. "Or what? You gonna get your pals and throw me out?" he asked, not taking him seriously. That was OK. He was used to playing the clown.
Still, the kid had a good point, even if he didn't know it. Phil got away with passing himself off as an employee due to anonymity. Dozens of people worked here on any given night, and they didn't all know each other. Being put on the spot would make people realize that he didn't work there, and he never had.
He stopped in his tracks, drawing a mocking laugh from one of the kids and looks of confusion from the others. What am I doing? he wondered. When he looked, he didn't see much reason to care.
Phil sighed and walked away, his hands in the pockets of his purple jacket, the kid behind him telling him to fuck off. It'd be nice if the guy didn't ruin his life by alcoholism (that beer wasn't the first he had that day) or getting into a drunken car crash, but it was none of his business. People had to make their own decisions, like he made his. Not everything got to be wrapped up with someone choosing the right thing.
He leaned against a wall, feeling spent. The park would be open a few more hours, but he already felt drained. And he had to be outside for the remainder; someone might have spotted him ducking into his secret abode if he did that while the place was so crowded. Too bad, because he really needed to practice the arcane ritual more. I might not come out at all tomorrow, he thought, thinking about everything he needed to do.
Phil was almost surprised by how little he feared what was coming. It was because he had nothing to lose. He was at his lowest point and had been for a long time. Whatever happened, his life couldn't get worse. If anything should happen to the others, though…
"Excuse me." His dour thoughts were interrupted by someone. Opened his eyes to see a stunning young woman in a skirt and an "FNaF" (as the Five Nights at Freddy's series by Silver Parasol Games was abbreviated to) t-shirt. Another fan, though he admitted most of them weren't so pretty. "Your costume is the best one here by a lot - Hell, it has eyelids that open and close. Can I get a selfie with you?"
May not have been human anymore, but he still had a libido (and a dick) and recognized a beautiful college girl when he saw one. Or maybe his standards just got really low after talking to pretty much zero women over the last year. Regardless, he was far older than the young man she thought was in the "costume", so he'd try to have some decency and not ogle her like an old creeper. I need to be better than Afton, at least, he thought, hoping he was able to clear that incredibly low bar.
"S-sure," he said, and he tried to smile for the camera. The girl leaned in and touched his arm, which sent an electric tingle down his spine as she tried to find the correct angle. Not even because she was attractive, but because he hadn't made physical contact with a person, except for that one day when he met his family again, in years.
"So, what's it like to work here?" she asked as she zoomed the camera in.
"It's OK, but the hours are pretty bad," he answered honestly, again wishing he could go back to his "house". Probably not what she thought he meant. "The stuff here scares me sometimes, too."
"Sounds like you need someone to protect you, then," she casually said, which sent a flash of heat through his face.
Honestly, he wasn't sure whether she tried to flirt with him or if he misread the situation. Either way, he shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet and hoped she just took the picture and left. Nope, he told himself repeatedly. She snapped the picture, and the flash made his pupils dilate. She thankfully didn't seem to notice that the "suit's" eyes were far more advanced than even she thought they were.
"Hey, I know this is sudden, but what's your name? Would you like to do something after your shift?" OK, she was definitely attracted to him.
"Phil," he said to answer her first question before running away. He ducked behind a building to catch his breath. Not his finest moment, but whatever, she got the message. He talked to someone who didn't tell him to shove his head up his ass, so it was an improvement over a few minutes ago. God, I hope I don't run into her again, he thought, wondering if he should just hide in the men's bathroom until near closing time. The more he thought about that, the better it sounded.
Five more nights, he told himself, hearing something magical in the number. Even after this was all over, he'd never stop thinking about the integer. He'd see the number in his dreams and turn his head every time he heard it said. But at least it wouldn't hurt him anymore.
11:30 PM
Auric took in the view as he strode across the mountain ridge. Already scouted the way in his astral form, so getting lost was not a concern. He would arrive on the day of the event, or perhaps the night before battle. He did not need to sleep, eat or drink, so there was nothing to stop him from walking until he reached his destination.
Even so, he stopped a moment and craned his head toward the sky. No light pollution for miles and a lack of cloud cover gave him an unobstructed view of the firmament. Most humans found it a beautiful sight and likened it to a work of art. The galaxy spread across it, a veil of other stars and nebulae, and other planets in this solar system rotated throughout. Auric could not have cared less. To him, it was merely a tool.
Useless, anyway. He divined nothing which told him about the pangs flashing through him. He hid it well when interacting with the Warden and that other human, but he could not stop the agonizing bolts from piercing his essence. They came every few seconds now, as opposed to every hour or minute. It nearly drove him mad; he wanted to tear the stars from the heavens. Agonizing, though he had no point of reference, as this was the only time he'd ever felt pain. To a human, it may have felt like no more than a pinprick.
As best he could figure, it was a sign of impending cosmological change. Some unknown event would soon come to this world and change it forever. Otherwise, a great catastrophe would befall one of his ilk - if any he had. Even those theories were little more than hints discerned from long hours spent divining the positions of stars and scrying in blood. He had not felt its like before in his many ages of existence, of that, he was sure.
Crushing my foes will cure it, he told himself, despite having no way to know the accuracy of that assertion. He continued over the high peak with the last morsels of snow crunching beneath his feet. So impermanent, like everything on this doomed world. He would remain as long as it did for the sake of finality - and to wring as much misery as possible out of the kinds of people his greatest enemies cared about: human youths.
If the Warden, Auric's rebellious slaves and that female he couldn't bother to remember the name of concerned themselves with the fates of slightly younger humans, he'd break as many of their necks as possible. He'd cut them down by the score. He'd reach out to the vulnerable and tell them to kill children in his name, and he would grant them great power (which would be a lie, of course). He'd drive parents mad until they slaughtered their own offspring. The possibilities were endless, and they made him salivate. Perhaps he should thank the Warden for this burst of inspiration.
But that came later. After he killed the only people who ever tried to stand in his way.
How many days and nights until he laid his enemies to their eternal rests? He already knew. It was the same number he used to taunt and torment other helpless Wardens during. Five.
…
I said last time that we're at the beginning of the end, and that's still the case. I'm going week by week and day by day to portray interesting moments with the characters. In theory. Honestly, I'm having a little difficulty figuring out what to put before the climax. I don't want to skip to the final confrontation, but this chapter was not fun to write, and I'm not sure any of it was really necessary. Still, it does portray the agonizing boredom and terror of waiting for something inevitable (I can relate to that, at least), which is the kind of psychological horror I enjoy.
A couple other things. First, the chanting in this chapter was created by looking up the chants praising Cthulhu in Lovecraft's works and putting them in a text scrambler. It created a unique look that's not immediately obvious. Second, I got more art! If you've been following me for a while, you know that I've gotten a couple art pieces of Mike and Foxy over the years. With this whole series coming to an end, though, I pulled out all the stops and commissioned the wonderful artist HalHalHalu to do drawings of all the major characters! These are on my DeviantArt, "AnInvisibleMan", and I have more to say about them there. Check them out if you have time. Unfortunately, with being so clunky, I'm not able to link either the artist or my DA directly, so you'll have to use a search engine to find them.
Thanks to Soviet Fox for reviewing since the last update! See you guys next time. I think I'll try to write one more update of buildup before the finale, which itself may be multiple parts, plus an epilogue for the whole series. Still three or four more chapters in total, but it really shows how close to the end we are now.