Five Nights at Freddy's_The Silver Eyes

by Scott Cawthon

  “Carlton?” Charlie said cautiously, as if her voice alone might set off the spring locks.

  “Yup,” he said, with the same faltering tone.

  “That costume is going to kill you if you move.” Charlie said.

  “Thanks,” he wheezed while half attempting a laugh. Charlie forced a smile.

  “Well, today is your lucky day. I’m probably the only person who knows how to get you out of that thing alive.”

  Carlton exhaled, a long and shaky breath. “Lucky me,” he said.

  Charlie knelt at his side, studying the costume for long moments without touching it. “These two spring locks at the neck aren’t holding anything back,” Charlie said at last. “He just rigged them to snap and pierce your throat if you try to move. I have to undo those first, then we can open the back of the costume and get you out. But you can’t move, Carlton, seriously.”

  “Yeah, serial-killer-man explained the not moving to me,” he said. Charlie nodded, and went back to looking at the costume, trying to devise an approach.

  “Do you know who I’m wearing?” Carlton asked, almost casually.

  “What?”

  “The costume, do you know what character it was supposed to be?” Charlie studied it, then looked around until she saw the matching head.

  “No,” she said. “Not everything he built made it to the stage.” Her fingers suddenly stopped working. “Carlton.” Charlie carefully surveyed the array of costumes and parts that lined the walls in varying stages of completion. “Carlton.” She repeated. “Is he in here?”

  With a new sense of dread, Carlton struggled to get a look behind him without moving. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t think so, but I’ve been kind of in and out.”

  “Okay, stop talking. I’ll try to work fast,” Charlie said. She had the mechanism figured out, or at least she thought she did.

  “Not too fast.” Carlton reminded her.

  Carefully, slowly, she reached into the costume’s neck and took hold of the first spring lock, maneuvering it until her fingers were wedged between the lock and Carlton’s neck.

  “Careful with that artery; I’ve had it since I was a kid,” Carlton said.

  “Shh,” Charlie said again. When he spoke, she could feel his neck move; he was not going to set off the locks by talking, she thought, but the feeling of his tendons moving under her hands was unsettling.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “Sorry. I talk when I’m nervous.” He clamped down his jaw and bit his lips together. Charlie reached down further into the costume’s neck, and found the trigger. With a stinging snap, the lock sprung against her hand, so hard it numbed her fingers. One down, she thought, as she pulled it, harmless, out of the neck of the costume. She flexed her fingers until the feeling came back into them, then crawled over to Carlton’s other side, and began the process again. She looked over her shoulder from time to time, making sure every costume was still in its place against the wall.

  His skin was warm under her touch, and even though he was not speaking she could still feel movement, feel the life in him. She could feel his pulse against the back of her wrist as she worked, and she blinked back unexpected tears. She swallowed hard and focused on the task, trying to ignore the fact that she was touching someone who would die if she failed him.

  She worked open the spring lock again, taking the impact on the palm of her hand, and pulling the disabled device free of the costume. Carlton took a deep breath in, and she startled.

  “Carlton, don’t relax!”

  He stiffened, and exhaled slowly, his eyes wide and frightened.

  “Right,” he said. “Still a death-trap.”

  “Stop talking,” Charlie pleaded again. She knew exactly how much danger he was still in, and she could not bear to hear him speak now, if he was about to die. “Okay,” she said. “Almost there.” She crawled around behind him, where a series of ten leather and metal fasteners held the back of the costume together. She considered it for a moment: she needed to keep the costume still, exactly as it was, until the last moment. She sat down behind him, and bent her knees, positioning herself so that she could hold the costume in place with her legs as she opened it.

  “I didn’t know you cared.” Carlton muttered, as though attempting to put a joke together but too tired and too scared to finish it. Charlie didn’t answer.

  One by one, she worked the fasteners free. The leather was stiff, the metal tightly fitted, and each one fought back as she worked, clinging together. When she was halfway up the back of the costume, she felt its weight begin to shift and she gripped it tighter with her knees, holding it together. Finally, she undid the last one, at the nape of his neck. She took a deep breath. This was it.

  “Okay, Carlton,” she said. “We’re almost done. I’m going to open this, and throw it forward. When I do, you pull out of it as fast as you can, okay? One… Two… Three!”

  She yanked the costume open and thrust it away with all her strength, and Carlton jerked back from it, toppling roughly into her. Charlie felt a sharp, quick pain on the back of her hand as she pulled free, but the costume skittered halfway across the room, leaving them clear. A series of snaps like fireworks sounded, and they both cried out, leaping back and banging into a heavy metal shelf. Together they watched as the empty costume writhed and twisted on the floor, the animatronic parts snapping violently into place. When it came to a stop, Charlie stared, fixated. The thing was just a torso, just an object on the floor.

  Beside her, Carlton let out a low, pained groan, then turned and vomited onto the floor beside him, heaving and retching so hard it was as if he would be turned inside out. Charlie watched, unsure what to do. She put a hand on his shoulder, and kept it there as he finished, wiped his mouth, and sat gasping for breath.

  “Are you okay?” She said, the words sounding small and ridiculous as they came out of her mouth.

  Carlton nodded wearily, then winced. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Sorry about the floor, I guess it’s your floor, kind of.”

  “You might have a concussion,” Charlie said, alarmed, but he shook his head, moving more slowly this time.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “My head hurts like somebody hit it really hard, and I feel sick from being stuck in this room and pondering my death for hours, but I think I’m okay. My mind is okay.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said doubtfully. Then something he had said finally registered.

  “Carlton, you said ‘serial-killer-man explained’ for you not to move. You saw who did this to you?”

  Carlton got to his knees carefully, then stood, bracing himself on a nearby box. He looked at Charlie. “I was trapped in that thing for hours; I’m all tingly.” He shook out his foot as if to make the point.

  “Did you see who it was?” Charlie repeated.

  “Dave, the guard,” Carlton said. He sounded almost surprised that she did not know. Charlie nodded. She had known already.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Not much,” Carlton said. “But...” His eyes opened suddenly, as if he had just remembered something of grave importance. He looked away from Charlie and slowly dropped to his knees.

  “What is it?” Charlie whispered

  “Do you want to hear?” He said. He seemed suddenly calm for someone who had so narrowly escaped death.

  “What is it?” She demanded. He glanced nervously at her for a moment, then took a deep breath, his face draining to white.

  “Charlie, the kids, all those years ago…”

  Charlie snapped to attention.

  “What?”

  “All of them, Michael and the others, they were taken from the dining room when no one was looking, and they were brought here. Carlton suddenly recoiled and moved toward the doorway, watching the walls as though they were crawling with invisible creatures. He—Dave, the guard—he brought them here…” Carlton rubbed his arms as though suddenly cold, and squinted in pain. “He put them into suits, Charlie,” he said, hi
s face twisting in sorrow or disgust. “Charlie.” He stopped abruptly, a faraway look in his eyes. “They are still here.”

  “How do you know that?” Charlie said in such a soft whisper that she was almost inaudible.

  Carlton motioned toward the far corner of the room. Charlie looked; a yellow Freddy costume was propped against the wall, the costume all fitted together, as if he were about to walk out onstage for a show.

  “That’s the one, that’s the bear I remember from the other restaurant.” Charlie clasped her hand over her mouth.

  “Other restaurant?” Carlton looked puzzled.

  “I don’t understand.” Charlie’s gaze was still fixed on the yellow costume. “Carlton, I don’t understand.” Her tone was urgent.

  “Michael.”

  Charlie stared at him. Michael?

  “What do you mean?” She said in a level voice.

  “I know how it sounds,” he said, then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Charlie, I think it’s Michael in that suit.”

  “I still can’t get this thing out!” John sighed in frustration and rubbed his hand; the lock was leaving harsh red imprints on his fingers. Jessica murmured something sympathetic, but did not take her eyes off the screens.

  “I can’t see anything!” She burst out after a moment.

  The radio squawked, and then Marla’s voice came, calling to them from the control room in Pirate’s Cove.

  “Both of you, be quiet and don’t move.” They froze, hunching down in their places. Jessica looked at John, a question in her eyes, but he shrugged, as at a loss as she was.

  Something thudded against the door, and John jumped away, almost falling.

  “Marla?” Jessica said with a pale expression. “Marla, that’s you out there, right?” The thud came again, more powerful than the first, and the door shook under it.

  “What is that, a sledgehammer?” John whispered hoarsely. The door pounded in again and again, dents appearing in the metal door that had looked so solid. They huddled back against the control panel, with nothing to do but watch. Jessica grabbed the back of his shirt, knotting the cloth between her fingers, and he did not shake her away; the door rocked in again, and this time a hinge unfolded slightly, exposing a thin crack between the door and the frame. The door still held, but it would not hold for long. John felt Jessica’s fingers tighten on his shirt, and he wanted to turn and give her some kind of comfort, but he was mesmerized, unable to look away from the door. He could almost see out through the little open space, and he craned his neck; another blow came and the crack widened, and at once from the other side he saw eyes, peering in, calm and expressionless.

  “Get out, get out!” Marla shouted, waving her hands at the security monitor as if John and Jessica could see her, as if it would do any good if they could. Lamar had both hands clapped over his mouth, his eyes wide, and Jason was sitting on the floor, waiting nervously as though an attack on their own door might begin at any moment. The monitors were dark, but it was clear that something large was lurking in front of the main stage, a black static shape that prowled back and forth, momentarily blocking the entire picture.

  “Marla.” Lamar said in a whisper, hoping quiet her, “Marla, look—.” He pointed to the monitor showing Pirate’s Cove, just outside their door. Marla looked over his shoulder at the other screen: the curtain was pulled back, and the space was completely empty. The “Out of Order” sign hung perfectly straight across the platform, untouched. “The lock, we didn’t…” Marla said feebly, realizing now the magnitude of their mistake. Marla turned to Jason, then let out a panicked whimper—the door behind him was slowly opening.

  “Shhh.” Lamar quickly flipped a small switch, killing the light in the control room, and backed against the wall next to the door. Marla and Jason mimicked his motions, flattening themselves against the wall across from him. The monitors still flickered with static, illuminating the space in oscillating greys and the occasional flash of white.

  The small door creaked outward at an excruciating pace, a gaping black void widening until the door stopped, fully open. “Marla!” A static-laced voice called from somewhere on the floor. Lamar shot out his foot across the narrow carpet, trying to catch the walkie–talkie.

  “Shhh, Shhh.” Marla closed her eyes, pleading with Jessica in her mind to stop talking. “Marla, where are you?” Jessica’s voice called again. Lamar managed to flip the walkie-talkie onto its side, and with a click it went silent. He didn’t know if he had jostled a battery out of place or somehow managed to flip the switch, but it didn’t matter.

  In the tiny room, there was no way to hide. The ceiling was too low to stand, and even with their backs against the wall their legs stretched out and under the door frame. The ledge under the door was high enough to hide their legs from anything outside, but not from anything that managed to get in.

  As one, they stopped breathing. The room was no longer empty: something was entering the space. As it pressed forward into the room they saw a snout, with the scratchy gloss of two unblinking eyes staring straight ahead. The monstrous head threatened to fill the room.

  “Foxy.” Jason mouthed, making no sound. The plastic eyes clicked left and right with unnatural motions; searching, but not seeing. The jaw twitched as though about to open, but never did.

  The dim light from the monitors gave his face a reddish hue, leaving the rest of him shrouded in darkness. The head slowly moved backward, its ears moving up and down at random, programmed as an afterthought a decade before. As Foxy backed away, his eyes thrashed back and forth, one partially hidden under a rotting eyepatch. Marla held her breath, dreading the moment when the eyes would fix on her. The head was almost out the door when the eyes clicked to the right and found Marla. The head stopped its retreat, its jaw frozen, slightly open. The plastic eyes remained on Marla, who sat in terrified silence. After a moment, the head retreated, leaving a black and empty space.

  Jason darted forward to find the door outside and shut it, and Marla made a weak grab at him, trying to stop him. He brushed past her, then stopped, kneeling in the doorway. He looked into the darkness, only now afraid of what must be there. He crawled slowly forward, his torso disappearing temporarily as he reached outside for the doorknob, then pulled himself back in and gently closed the door. Marla and Lamar closed their eyes and let out a deep breath at the same time.

  Jason looked at them; he was almost smiling when, in a blur, the door burst open again, and an ugly metal hook sank into his leg. He screamed in pain. Marla leaped to grab him, but she was too slow; as she watched, helpless, Jason was dragged through the doorway.

  “Marla!” He cried, clawing futilely at the floor, and she howled in despair as he was taken from her again, nothing visible of his assailant but the awful glimmer of the hook.

  Marla dove toward the door after him, falling to her knees, and crawling toward the thing, but Lamar grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back, taking hold of the door. Before he could pull it shut, it was ripped from his hands with an inhuman strength, and suddenly Foxy was there before them, coming inside.

  He was suddenly full of life, a different creature, and he turned to look at Marla, his silver eyes appearing to comprehend. His face was a canine rictus, the scrappy orange fur insufficient to cover up his skull. He looked between them, turning his ghoulish smile first on Lamar, then on Marla. His eyes flared and dimmed, and he snapped his jaws with a sound like something breaking. They stared, backed up against the control panel, then Lamar realized suddenly what he was looking at.

  “He can’t fit all the way in,” he whispered. Marla looked; it was true, Foxy’s shoulders were jammed into the doorway, his head the only part he could wedge through the door.

  Lamar lunged forward and kicked the animatronic, bracing himself against the wall and striking out with his foot three times before Foxy gave a low whine, a sound more machine than animal, and slunk back out into the dark. Lamar snapped the door shut behind him and slid the deadbolt into place. Th
ey stared at one another for a long moment, breathing hard.

  “Jason!” Marla screamed.

  Lamar put his arms around her, and she let him hug her, but she did not cry, just closed her eyes.

  “What do you mean, it’s Michael in the suit?” Charlie said softly, as if she might be talking to someone who had gone mad, while also desperate to hear the answer. Carlton looked at the yellow bear for a long moment, and when he turned back to Charlie, his face was calm. He opened his mouth to speak, and Charlie put a finger to her lips. Something was coming; she could hear footsteps out in the hall, moving toward them. Deliberate, heavy steps, the approach of someone who did not mind if anyone heard him coming. Charlie looked wildly around the room, and spotted a pipe in a corner. She grabbed it and hurried to stand behind the door, where whoever opened it would not see her. Carlton picked up the torso, as though to use it as a weapon somehow. He looked confused, as if he were not thinking clearly.

  “Don’t,” Charlie warned in a low voice, but too late. Something snapped inside it. Carlton dropped the thing and stepped back from it, a shimmer of blood on his hand.

  “Are you okay?” Charlie whispered. He nodded, and then the doorknob turned.

  Dave appeared in the doorway, his head held high and his face grim. It should have been imposing, but he just looked like a man walking through a door.

  “Now you’ve done it,” he announced to the room in general, then his eyes lit on Carlton, unfettered, and his face darkened. Before he could move, Charlie raised the pipe high, stepped forward, and swung it down on his head.

  There was a sickening thunk and he turned, shock on his face. Charlie lifted the pipe, ready to attack again, but the man just stumbled backward against the wall and dropped into a sitting position.

  “Carlton! Come on,” Charlie said urgently, but he was looking down at his injured hand. “Carlton? Are you hurt?”