Five Nights at Freddy's_The Silver Eyes

by Scott Cawthon

  “Charlie?” John said, and she looked at him. He cast a nod back at Carlton, who was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. Jessica was hovering worriedly, not sure what to do. “We have to get him out of here,” John said.

  “I know,” Charlie said. “Come on, that guard is our best chance of getting out alive.” With one more look at the open space in front of them, she led them out into the main room.

  Crossing in front of the stage, she saw John and Jessica glancing upward, but she refused to look up at the animals, as if that would stop them from looking at her. It did not help; she felt their eyes on her, taking her measure, waiting for their moment—finally she could not stand it. She snapped her head around to look as they passed, and saw only the inanimate robots, their eyes fixed on something that no one else could see.

  They paused again at a hall entrance, waiting for Marla to guide them, and after an anxious moment her voice came over the radio, calm again.

  “Go ahead, the hall is clear.”

  They went. They were almost there, and Charlie felt a tightness in her stomach like a living knot, something snakelike that was fighting to be free. She thought of Carlton, retching on the floor of the office, and felt for a moment like she might do the same, if her stomach were not almost painfully empty. She stopped a few feet from the door, holding up a hand.

  “I don’t know if he’s in there,” she said in a low voice. “And if he is I don’t know if he’s—awake,” she finished. Now let’s hope I didn’t accidentally kill that guard, she had said. She was only kidding, but now the words came back, unsettling her. It had not really occurred to her that he might be dead until the words were out of her mouth, and now, as she stood in the hall, about to find out, the idea took hold.

  As if he knew what she was thinking, John said,

  “Charlie, we have to go in.”

  She nodded. John moved as if to take the lead, but she shook her head. Whatever was in there, it was her doing. Her responsibility. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, then turned the knob.

  He was dead. He was lying on the floor, on his back, his eyes closed and his face ashen. She felt herself put a hand over her mouth, but it was as if someone else were moving her body; she felt numb, the knots in her stomach gone still and dead. John pushed past her. He was slapping the man’s face.

  “John,” she said, hearing a note of panic in her voice. He looked up at her, surprised.

  “He’s not dead,” he said. “He’s just out cold. He can’t tell us anything like this.”

  “We have to tie him up or something,” Jessica said. “Don’t wake him up like this.”

  “Yeah, gotta agree with that,” Carlton said. His eyes searched the room for devices, tools, or costumes: anything that Dave could—and probably would—use against them, given the opportunity.

  Charlie just stared, the numb feeling lingering. He’s not dead. She shook herself all over, like a dog, trying to rid herself of the remnants of shock, and cleared her throat.

  “Let’s find something to tie him up with,” she said. “This place seems to have everything.” Jessica headed to the back of the room, where costume pieces were piled haphazardly, empty mascot heads staring out from odd angles with ghastly eyes.

  “Careful touching the costumes,” Charlie called toward Jessica.

  “We could always put him in one of those costumes, like he did to me,” Carlton said. There was an uncharacteristic edge to his voice, something hard and painful. Charlie didn’t think it was from his injury. He sat down on a box, his face strained and his arms wrapped around his body, like he was holding himself together.

  Suddenly Carlton’s face lit up with alarm.

  “Don’t touch—” He shouted, and pushed Charlie out of the way. He stumbled past Jessica, who was searching through the clutter, and started tearing his way through the mess, picking up boxes and pushing things out of his way, scrambling in a desperate search.

  “Charlie, where is it??” He said, his gaze roaming around the room futilely. Charlie went to him, following where he looked, and realized what was missing: the yellow bear suit that had been slouched in the corner.

  “What?” John said, confused.

  “Charlie, where is it? Where is Michael?” He sat with a thud on a cardboard box that sagged a little, but held his weight. He was only looking at Charlie, as if they were the only people in the room.

  “Michael?” John whispered. He looked at Charlie, but she returned his gaze silently; she had no answers to offer him.

  “Michael was there.” Carlton pressed his lips firmly, rocking himself back and forth.

  “I believe you.” Charlie answered calmly, her voice quiet. John put his hands on his knees and let out a breath.

  “I’m going to go help Jessica,” he muttered, and stood up with resignation. “There has to be rope around here somewhere.”

  “Be right there.” Charlie smiled at Carlton, hoping to reassure him, then joined the others, heading for the boxes in the corner beside the door.

  The first just held more paperwork, official forms with tiny print, but underneath was a box of tangled extension cords.

  “Hey, I found something,” Charlie said, but she was cut off by a banshee scream.

  Charlie was on her feet instantly, ready to run, but everyone else was still. Jessica was pointing to something in the corner, almost shaking. John was behind her, his eyes wide.

  “What is it?” Charlie demanded, and when they did not answer, she rushed over, and looked down at the pile of empty costumes, to where Jessica was pointing.

  It was hard to sort out what was what, in the pile of mascots. She stared blankly at the jumble, seeing nothing but fur and eyes and beaks and paws, and then it resolved before her eyes, and she saw it.

  A dead man.

  He looked young, not much older than they were— and he looked familiar.

  “That’s the cop, the one from yesterday,” John said, recovering his voice.

  “What?” Carlton said, snapping to attention. He came over to look. “That’s Officer Dunn, I know him.”

  “Your dad sent him to look for you,” Charlie said quietly.

  “What do we do?” Jessica said. She had been inching slowly backward, and now her foot bumped against Dave, and she jumped, stifling another scream. It pulled Charlie’s eyes away from Dunn, and looking away was enough to recall her to their task.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” she said firmly. “Come on, we don’t know how much time we have before he wakes up.”

  John and Jessica followed her across the room, Jessica catching up and keeping close to Charlie, as if afraid to get too far away from her again. Charlie grabbed a handful of cords and tossed it to John.

  It was a long and tedious process. They propped Dave up into a sitting position against the wall, but he kept sliding down sideways, until John took hold of his shoulders. John bent him forward as Charlie tied his hands behind his back. She finished and looked up to see John with a faint smile on his face.

  “Do my knots amuse you?” She said as lightly as she could manage. The feel of Dave’s flesh, alive yet limp and heavier than it should have been, was disturbing, and as she let go of him, she could still feel the traces of his clammy skin on her palms.

  He shrugged. “All those times we played cops and robbers seem to have paid off.”

  She almost laughed.

  “I forgot about that,” she admitted. He nodded sagely.

  “And yet I still bear the scars of the rope burns you gave me.” John smiled.

  “And that was before I was even a Girl Scout,” Charlie said. “Stop complaining and pick up his feet. Let’s hope my skills haven’t atrophied.”

  She finished tying Dave up, pretending a confidence she did not really have—the cords were thick and stiff; they were hard to manipulate, and she was not sure how long they would hold. When she was as sure as she could be, she stepped back.

  John looked around for a moment as though searc
hing for something, then slipped out through the door without a word.

  Carlton was on his knees, and he walked toward Dave without standing, a clunky, unsteady walk—he looked like he might tip over at any moment. “Wakey, wakey, sleepy head,” he whispered.

  “We’ve got this, Carlton; thanks. You just relax.” She rolled her eyes toward Jessica, then turned her attention back to Dave, slapping his face lightly, but he remained inert.

  “Hey, dirt-bag. Wake up.” She slapped him again.

  “Here try this.” John reappeared with a can of water. “Water fountain,” was the only explanation he offered. “The can didn’t hold much,” he added.

  “That’s okay,” Charlie said. She took it from him and held it over Dave’s head, letting the small streams of water dribbling from the holes in the tin fall on his face. She aimed for his mouth, and after a few moments, he spluttered, his eyes opening.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake,” Charlie said, and dumped the rest of the water on his head.

  He said nothing, but his eyes remained open in a stiff, unnatural stare.

  “So, Dave,” she said. “How about you tell us what’s going on?”

  His mouth opened slightly but no words came out. After a moment he became still again, so still that Charlie reluctantly pressed her fingers to his neck to check for a pulse.

  “Is he alive?” John said, creeped out by what seemed to be an on-again off-again animated corpse. He moved closer to the man, kneeling so their eyes were at a level, and looked at him gravely, as if he were searching for something.

  “His pulse is normal,” Charlie reported. She pulled her hand back, more startled than if he’d been dead.

  “Charlie, there’s something different about him,” John said urgently. He reached out and grasped Dave’s chin, turning his head back and forth. Dave did not resist, just kept staring without expression, as if the world around him were not really there.

  “What do you mean?” Charlie said, though she saw it, too. It was as if the guard, the man they had met, had been stripped away, and what sat before them was nothing but a blank canvas.

  John shook his head and released the guard’s chin, wiping his hands on his pants. He stood and stepped back, putting a distance between them.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s just something different.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about the kids.” Carlton was leaning back against the wall, emboldened, but still not completely balanced. “The kids you killed, you stuffed them into those suits out there.” Carlton motioned toward the stage outside.

  “Carlton, shut up.” John said angrily. “Everything you’re saying is nonsense.”

  “No, it’s true.” Charlie whispered. John gave her a searching look, then turned to the others, who had no more answers than Charlie. He looked back at Dave with an expression of renewed disgust. Seeing John’s face, Charlie was suddenly struck with the weight of memory. Michael, who had been a cheerful, careless little boy, Michael who had drawn portraits of them all, passing them around with a solemn pride. Michael who had been killed, whose final moments must have been all pain and terror. Michael, who had been killed by the man before them. She looked to the others, and on each of their faces she saw the same, single thought: this was the man who killed Michael.

  Without warning, John’s arm shot out like lightning and struck Dave across the jaw with a loud crack. Dave slumped back, and John lunged and almost fell from the impact of the strike. John regained his posture and bounced a little on the balls of his feet, alert, waiting for a reaction, or a chance to strike again. Dave’s body moved upward, straightening, but the movement was too smooth: he seemed to make no effort, use no muscles, and exert no energy. Slowly, his posture corrected, unfolding to his slumped state, his mouth hanging open.

  Carlton stumbled forward. “Take that, jackass.” He swung his arm into the air and swayed on his feet. Jessica leapt forward just in time to catch him in her arms.

  Dave continued to stare, and it was only after a moment that Charlie considered that he might actually be staring at something. She turned, following his line of sight, then suddenly she recoiled. On the table along the wall, there sat a rabbit’s head.

  “That’s it? You want that?” Charlie stood and approached the mask. “You need this?” She added in a whisper. She picked it up carefully, the light catching the edges of the spring locks that filled the mascot head. She picked it up and carried it almost ceremoniously to Dave, who tipped his head down in a barely noticeable fashion.

  Charlie placed it over his head, not being nearly as cautious as she had been with Carlton. When the mascot head was fully resting on his shoulders, the large face raised itself until it was almost completely upright. Dave’s eyes opened in a steady motion, glassy and without emotion, like the robots on the stage outside.

  Lines of sweat began to trickle down from under the mask, a stain darkening the collar of his uniform shirt.

  “My dad trusted you,” Charlie said. She was on her knees now as well, looking intently at the rabbit’s face. “What did you do to him?” Her voice broke.

  “I helped him create.” The voice came from inside the mask, but it was not Dave’s, not the pitiful, sour tone they would have recognized. The voice of the rabbit was smooth and rich, almost musical. It was confident, somehow reassuring—a voice that might convince you of almost anything. Dave cocked his head to the side and the mask shifted, so that only one of his bulbous eyes could peer through the sockets of the mask.

  “We both wanted to love,” he said in those melodious tones. “Your father loved. And now I have loved.”

  “You killed,” Carlton said, then burst out with something that sounded like a laugh. He seemed more lucid now, as if anger were focusing his mind. He shook loose of Jessica’s hands on his arms and knelt down on the floor.

  “You’re a sick bastard,” Carlton sputtered. “And you’ve created monsters. The kids you killed are still here. You’ve imprisoned them!”

  “They are home, with me.” Dave’s voice was coarse as he said it, and the large mascot head slid forward, tilting. “Their happiest day.”

  “How do we get out?” Charlie placed one hand on the mascot head and pushed it back into position on Dave’s shoulders. The fur felt wet and sticky, as though the costume itself were sweating.

  “There isn’t a way out anymore. All that’s left is family.” His round eye reappeared through one of the sockets, glimmering in the light. He locked eyes with Charlie for a moment, struggling to lean in closer. “Oh,” he gasped. “You’re something beautiful aren’t you?” Charlie recoiled as if he had touched her. What’s that supposed to mean? She took another step back, fighting a surge of revulsion.

  “Well then you’re trapped too, and you’re not going to be hurting anyone else,” John said in response to the veiled threat.

  “I don’t have to,” Dave answered. “When it gets dark, they will awaken; the children’s spirits will rise. They will kill you. I’ll just walk out in the morning, stepping over your corpses, one by one.” He looked at each of them in turn, as if relishing the bloody scene.

  “They’ll kill you, too,” Jessica said.

  “No, I am quite confident that I will survive.”

  “Really?” John said suddenly, “I’m pretty sure they’re the spirits of the kids you killed,” he all but spat the last two words at the guard. “Why would they hurt us? It’s you they’re after.”

  “They don’t remember,” Dave said. “They’ve forgotten. The dead do forget. All they know is that you are here, trying to take away their happiest day. You are intruders.” He lowered his voice to a hush. “You are grown-ups.”

  They looked at one another.

  “We’re not—” Jessica began.

  “You’re close enough. Especially to a vengeful, confused, and frightened child. None of you will survive the night”

  “And what makes you think they won’t kill you?” John said again, and Dave’s face took
on something shining, almost beatific.

  “Because I am one of them,” he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  They all stood staring at the man on the floor; Jessica took an involuntary step backward. Charlie was glued to the spot; she could not look away from him. Because I am one of them. As if he could tell what she was thinking, John stepped up beside her.

  “Charlie, he’s insane,” he said quietly, and it was enough to break her away from that dreadful, ecstatic face. She turned to John.

  “We have to get out,” she said. He nodded, turned back to the group, and gestured to the walkie-talkie in his hand.

  “I’m going back to the control room,” he said. “These things are police radios, there has to be a way to get them to reach the outside. Maybe I can use the equipment in there to get a signal somehow.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Charlie said instantly, and he shook his head.

  “You have to stay with them,” he said, barely audible. Charlie looked over at Jessica and Carlton. He was right. Carlton needed someone with him, and Jessica—Jessica was holding it together, but she couldn’t be left alone, in charge of both their safety. Charlie nodded.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  He didn’t answer; instead he tucked the walkie-talkie into his belt, gave her a wink, and left.

  Clay Burke was in his office, reviewing the week’s case files. There was not much; traffic violations, two petty thefts, and one confession to the murder of Abraham Lincoln. Clay shuffled through the papers and sighed. Shaking his head, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and removed the file that had been plaguing him all morning.

  Freddy’s. He closed his eyes, and he was there again, the cheerful family restaurant, its floor streaked with blood. After Michael disappeared, he had worked fourteen-hour days, sometimes sleeping in the station. Every time he came home, he went to look at Carlton, who was usually asleep. He wanted to grab his son and hold him close, never let him go. It could have been any of the children there that day; it was his blind, dumb luck that the killer had spared his own.