The Puppet Carver

by Scott Cawthon

  “Hey, Colton!” Aidan’s annoying, high-pitched voice interrupted Colton’s thoughts.

  Colton looked down to see the freckle-faced freak holding so many long ribbons of tickets he could hardly grasp them in his tiny fists.

  “Hey, Colton, look how many tickets I got!” Aidan said.

  “I see,” Colton hissed. “Now shoo.”

  “Do you want half my tickets?” Aidan asked, holding out a fistful.

  “I don’t want your stupid tickets. I want you to. Go. Away.” Colton was filled with a white-hot rage. Why did this loathsome little creature have to pester him all the time?

  “Okay. Bye, Colton.” Aidan ran off to join his repulsive little friends.

  With Aidan gone, Colton returned to his plan.

  It was a beautiful plan. Except for one thing.

  Colton suddenly realized that he couldn’t dismantle the Ticket Pulverizer when Freddy’s was open and full of employees, screaming kids, and exhausted parents. If a worker caught him messing with the machine, the manager would be called, and Colton would be thrown out and maybe even banned from returning. If the manager was in a really bad mood, she might even call the police. Getting in that kind of trouble was a risk he couldn’t take.

  No. If Colton was going to fix the Ticket Pulverizer, he was going to have to do it when the place was empty.

  Colton realized that to get what he wanted, he had only one choice. Late one night, while his mom was at work, he was going to have to break into Freddy Fazbear’s.

  * * *

  Uncle Mike slid out from under the car he was working on. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, smiling up at his nephew. “Ready to do some apprentice work for me today?”

  “Sure,” Colton said. He liked Uncle Mike’s repair shop, its smell of grease and rubber, the tools lying around, the endless parade of cars to work on. He liked his bearded, paunchy uncle, too. If Colton continued to do well in his technical classes at school and apprenticed for Uncle Mike a couple of afternoons a week, Mike had promised Colton that he could have a job in the shop as soon as he graduated high school.

  Mike wiped his hands on a grease-stained rag and nodded in the direction of a blue SUV. “Rear passenger tire on that one needs changing. I already got out the new tire and the tools you need. You know what you’re doing, right?”

  “Sure.” Colton liked that Uncle Mike gave him credit for knowing some things. Colton had changed a lot of tires, mostly in Mike’s shop but once on the side of the interstate when his mom’s car had a blowout. His mom had made a big deal out of that, telling everybody she knew how he saved the day.

  Colton worked efficiently at changing the tire. He felt most satisfied when he was working with his hands. Writing papers for school made him stressed out and frustrated, both when he had to write the paper and when he got the graded paper back with a C on it … if he was lucky. But he knew he was an A-plus student when it came to fixing things.

  “Looks good, man,” Uncle Mike said, surveying Colton’s work. “Once I put in a new timing belt on this one over here, it needs an oil change. Think you’re up for that?”

  Colton smiled and nodded. He was good at oil changes, too.

  “You want to watch me change the timing belt so you’ll know how to do it?”

  “Sure.” Colton followed his uncle to the car. Once he had watched and learned, he got up his courage to ask Mike the question he had been waiting to ask him since he came to the shop. “Hey, Uncle Mike, I was wondering … could I borrow a few tools to use over the weekend? I’ve got a project I’m working on at home.”

  Mike grinned. “You know me and tools, kid. I’ve got extras of everything. When it comes to tools, I’m like some women are with shoes. Can’t get enough of them.”

  Colton grinned back. “Yeah, but you don’t ask to borrow somebody’s shoes. That would be weird.”

  “True.” Uncle Mike nodded in the direction of a large tool chest sitting against the wall. “You’re welcome to borrow anything in there. Keep them for longer than the weekend if you need to. I know you’ll take good care of them.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Mike.” Colton felt a little guilty for not being honest about how he was going to use the tools, but not so guilty that he wasn’t going to take what he needed.

  After Colton finished the oil change and drank the soda that Uncle Mike brought him, he opened the chest to survey the tools. What tools would he need to get access to the inner workings of the Ticket Pulverizer? There might be screws he would need to remove, so he grabbed a couple of different kinds of screwdrivers. A wrench seemed like it might be helpful and maybe a crowbar in case he needed to pry up the platform on the machine’s floor. He needed to keep his tool kit pretty light, though. If he was going to be sneaking into the place, he couldn’t be slowed down by carrying a lot of heavy equipment. He needed to be swift and stealthy, like a ninja.

  Colton imagined himself dressed in black, moving smoothly and silently, breaking into Freddy’s under the cover of night like a character in a movie. A little shiver of excitement ran through him.

  Tools in hand, Colton left through the front office, where Uncle Mike was settling up with a customer.

  “Thanks for letting me use your stuff, Uncle Mike.”

  “No problem,” Uncle Mike said. He slipped Colton a ten-dollar bill from the cash register. Colton’s apprenticeship wasn’t a paid position, but it wasn’t rare for Mike to hand him a little bit of cash. “This is for doing a good job lending me a hand today. And hey, if you need any help with that project, just let me know.”

  Colton smiled at the thought of asking Uncle Mike to help him break into Freddy Fazbear’s to fix the Ticket Pulverizer. “Thanks, but I think I’d better handle this one on my own.”

  * * *

  Colton had decided that Saturday night, the next time his mom worked an eight-to-eight shift, would be perfect for the Heist, as he had come to call it. But now it was Saturday afternoon, and he had just hit a major stumbling block.

  Colton had gotten the right tools from Uncle Mike, and after lots of sketching and planning, he was pretty sure he knew what was needed to rerig the Ticket Pulverizer. But there was one obstacle he hadn’t thought through.

  He didn’t know how to sneak into the building.

  Sure, he had pictured himself in a black shirt and black pants and stocking cap, creeping around like a cat on the prowl. He had even pictured himself dodging lasers from the security system like he had seen in a movie once. But he didn’t know how to get past the locked doors of Freddy Fazbear’s. If he tried to pick the lock, surely an alarm would sound. If he tried to break the glass, an alarm would also sound and he could get busted for vandalism. Colton wanted to get into Freddy’s to right a wrong, not to cause trouble. And he certainly didn’t want to do anything to land himself in the juvenile detention center.

  Colton was playing Hammer of Odin and trying to relax so he could think clearly. His character was low on strength and weapons at the moment, so when a potential enemy became visible, Colton moved his character into a cave so he could hide from danger.

  That’s when a light switch turned on in Colton’s brain.

  He wouldn’t try to break into Freddy’s after it closed. He would hang out at Freddy’s when it was open, like he did on a lot of Saturday nights. But when it got close to closing time, he wouldn’t leave. He would hide. He would stay hidden until the employees had cleaned up the place and shut it down, and then he would come out and repair the Ticket Pulverizer.

  By dinnertime, Colton was filled with nervous excitement. He sat across from his mom at the table, not making eye contact with her and toying with his food. The fluttering in his stomach seemed to be coming from something much stronger than butterflies.

  “You’re not eating much,” Mom noted, looking over his plate. “Spaghetti and meatballs is usually your favorite. I even made extra thinking you’d at least go back for seconds and maybe thirds.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Colton said, rolling a
meatball across his plate with a fork. “The spaghetti’s great. I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

  His mom knitted her brow in concern. “Well, that’s certainly not like you. You’re not coming down with something, are you? There’s a nasty stomach bug going around. People have been coming into the ER with it all week. It’s easy to get dehydrated when you can’t keep anything down.”

  “I don’t know,” Colton said. “I guess I do feel a little tired.” Colton wasn’t tired at all, but it struck him that being “sick” might be a useful alibi. He yawned and stretched in what he hoped was a convincing display of fatigue.

  “Hm,” his mom said. “Well, if you don’t feel any better, maybe you shouldn’t go to Freddy’s tonight. Being in a closed space with all those germy little kids certainly won’t do your immune system—or everyone else’s—any favors.”

  “True,” Colton said, shuddering a little at the thought of all those little kids’ germy paws, touching every surface they could reach, spreading disease like rats during the Black Plague. “If I don’t feel better later, I’ll stay home,” he said, even though in his mind, he was already at Freddy’s dismantling the Ticket Pulverizer.

  “Good,” Mom said, twirling spaghetti on her fork. “And if there’s any kind of emergency, like if you were to get too sick to stay alone, call me at the third-floor nurses’ station.”

  “I will, Mom. Thanks.”

  * * *

  Once his mom left for work, Colton changed into black cargo pants, which were perfect since they were dark-colored but would also hold all his tools. The only problem was the tools were so heavy, once they were in his pockets, his pants immediately fell down. This, he decided, was probably not the best way to avoid calling attention to himself. He grabbed a belt from his closet and secured it tightly around his waist. He tucked his phone into his back right pocket and put the ten-dollar bill Uncle Mike had slipped him for helping in one of his many other pockets.

  He felt afraid but also excited, like when he was about to go on a roller coaster.

  One thought that especially gave him pleasure was the idea of getting tons and tons of tickets while Aidan and his annoying little friends got none. Aidan’s disappointment would only add to Colton’s joy. Why did the kid have to be so happy all the time? Even when Aidan was a baby, he had been all smiles. Babies were supposed to cry. Crying was normal.

  It would be great to see his stupid cousin shed some tears for once, just like it would be great for Colton to come out a winner for once in his life.

  He locked the door behind him and started the walk to Freddy’s.

  Freddy’s was the usual riot of lights, sounds, and scurrying squeakers. It was two hours until closing time. Just act casual, Colton told himself. The best plan, he decided, was to lie low, play games, and try not to interact with the Freddy’s employees. The more he could blend in, the better. He played the ball drop and the coin pusher a few times, rolled up the tickets he won into tight spools, and stuffed them in his cargo pants. As the clock crawled nearer to closing, he camped in the Skee-Ball section. For some reason—perhaps because wooden balls in the hands of toddlers were a safety hazard—the little kids tended to be kept away from the Skee-Ball area. Instead, this section was mostly occupied by dads killing time, who, Colton was sure, wouldn’t notice him. Playing a few rounds of Skee-Ball seemed like a good way to win a few more tickets while keeping a low profile.

  Before too long, a recorded Freddy Fazbear voice boomed over the intercom: “Sorry to spoil your fun, friends, but Freddy’s will be closing in fifteen minutes. Come back tomorrow and play all day!”

  Colton took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. It was time to swing into action. He was going to have to find a place to hide. He walked as casually as he could manage around the perimeter of the restaurant, looking for a room he could slip into unnoticed. The restrooms were out of the question, as someone would surely come in to clean them after closing time. And he certainly wasn’t going to open the door marked OFFICE. Exploring further, he found another door, decorated with a poster of Freddy Fazbear and his weird-looking animal pals but otherwise unlabeled. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then tried the doorknob.

  It turned.

  As quietly and smoothly as he could, he opened the door and slipped behind it. Ninja, he thought to himself.

  Colton found himself in a small storage room illuminated by a single, low-wattage light bulb. There was a rack of mops and brooms. Large yellow plastic buckets on wheels were lined up against the nearest wall. In front of the back wall was a tall gray metal cabinet with double doors. Could he hide inside the cabinet? Colton opened one of the doors. The cabinet was lined with shelves stocked with cleaning supplies and rolls of paper towels and toilet paper. There was no room to hide.

  But then Colton noticed that the cabinet was not resting against the wall but was instead a few inches away from it. If he stood straight and held his breath, would it be possible for him to hide behind the cabinet?

  It was worth a shot.

  Colton took a deep breath, sucked in his stomach, and stood with his back flat to the wall. Inching sideways, he squeezed himself into the narrow space behind the cabinet. He had to turn his feet slightly sideways to make them fit. His grandmother was always telling him to stand up straight. Right now he was standing straighter than he had ever stood, his spine pressed against the wall. The back of the cabinet was touching his chest, and if he hadn’t sucked in his stomach, it would be touching him there, too.

  Colton had never really been in a tight space before, so he had never really understood claustrophobia. He understood it now. Even though he knew rationally that he had plenty of access to oxygen, he still had the sensation of not being able to breathe. The space was too tight, too cramped. He remembered reading a story about a man who was trapped in a cave and slowly went mad. Even after only being in this tiny space for a couple of minutes, he understood how quickly his sanity could slip away if he had no means of escaping.

  But he was in control. He could leave his hiding place any time he wanted to. He was just choosing to stay there until closing time because it was the only way for his plan to work. He could do this.

  And he had to admit to himself that it was an excellent hiding place. He surveyed all the dust bunnies he was sharing the space with and stifled a sneeze. Even if they were sneeze inducing, the dust bunnies were evidence that no one had moved this cabinet or even swept behind it in a long, long time. If he could stay still and sneeze-less, he was going to be fine.

  Colton could hear the voices of Freddy’s employees outside the storage room, then the noise of a vacuum cleaner. He let his mind drift to images of himself jumping up and down in the repaired Ticket Pulverizer, literally buried in tickets, claiming his richly deserved prize. Daydreaming helped pass the time, helped distract from the physical discomfort of being pressed against a wall.

  Colton heard the door to the supply room being pushed open, then footsteps.

  “I don’t know why I’ve always got to be the one to clean the toilets,” an irritated-sounding female voice muttered. “Brittany the princess thinks she’s too good to clean the bathrooms.”

  The footsteps approached the cabinet. Colton’s heart pounded like a jackhammer.

  Colton both heard and felt the Freddy’s employee open the cabinet doors. If the back wall of the cabinet hadn’t been separating them, she would be close enough to touch him.

  Colton held his breath. Don’t let her hear you breathe, he told himself.

  “Okay, so spray cleaner and lots of toilet paper,” the worker said. “Because goodness knows, Her Royal Highness Brittany couldn’t lower herself to change a roll of toilet paper.”

  Colton heard the cabinet doors shut and the worker’s footsteps walking away from him. The storage room was empty again.

  Colton exhaled.

  He let his mind drift—it could have been for a couple of minutes or an hour—he was losing track
of time. But then he heard the flip of a switch, and the room was plunged into darkness.

  A flashlight. Why had he not brought a flashlight? What if the entire restaurant was pitch-black? How could he work on the Ticket Pulverizer then?

  Stupid, he chided himself. How could you be so stupid?

  Soon the noises of human movement outside the storage room faded, and Freddy’s fell silent. Colton slowly slid from behind the storage cabinet. His back hurt, and his shoulders were stiff. It was a relief to stretch.

  The supply room was so dark he had to use the light from his phone to find his way to the door. He hoped that when he opened it, he wouldn’t be greeted by more darkness.

  The fluorescent lights in the game area had been turned off, but security lights on the ceiling, along with the colorful lights from the various token-sucking games, still illuminated the arcade. The glow of the games in the dim room had an effect that was somewhat eerie, but at least Colton could see. He could do what he came here to do.

  Colton made his way to the Ticket Pulverizer. He unloaded his tools from his pockets and laid them out on the floor. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. His plan had worked. He was in. He felt like an action hero.

  He had thought a lot about the mechanics of the Ticket Pulverizer and why it worked unfairly well for the annoying little brats. He figured the platform was too loose, too easy for them to push down. If he could tighten it up, make it more resistant, then the little brats couldn’t make it budge, and there would be more tickets for the older, bigger, and more deserving.