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Autumn in Hurricane came swiftly, ribbons of thick-dusted wind wrapped their way around the shaved shapes of the store roofs outside. It felt like the months were merely dwindling by, especially since Liz went missing. Michael sighed, he pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of his leather jacket.
He stared blank-faced out the glass window. Cars painted in shades of whatever burnt pastel was in style at the moment sped by outside. He let himself be draped with the reflection of their headlights passing through Hurricane’s foggy afternoon. He sighed and removed his hand from his chin; he’s got enough pimples as it is, what with the constant stress of being at his father’s beck and call at all hours of the day.
“Hi, welcome to Sparky's. What can I get started for–Mr. Afton! I thought it was you! Welcome back.” A man who had about a decade on Mike greeted them, his hair slicked back since the dead of morning and laminated menus clumsily spread in his hands.
Truth be told, Mike didn’t know what to make of it. Father hadn’t brought him to a restaurant that wasn’t Freddy’s since Evan died. Back when Father stressed the importance of “appearances.” Mike remembers those days of dressing up for the upscale Italian restaurant in town: Father deliberately picking out the most visible table, mom would pretend to be embarrassed but would blush from the white wine and chat up the business men who recognized Father to compliment them on how they produced such beautiful children. (“Such rosy cheeks! And the older boy, oh, it’s like looking in a mirror!”)
Those days of perpetually posing in a picture frame were long gone now. The point was, he’d almost forgotten the poignant smell of a coffee-veiled diner until now, and Father always had a plan up his sleeve and in the diameter of his oh-so-convenient handkerchief square, so color Mike suspicious that there’s some ulterior motive hidden under the current of the diner’s Coca-Cola bubbles on tap.
“Coffee with two creams for me and a water for the boy.” He leaned into the waiter’s space, “It’ll do nothing but stunt his growth.”
The waiter, name-tag spelling out NESS, laughed, “Kids right? Got that, let me know if you need anything else Mr. Afton.”
Mike half-expected the man to glide away on a pair of colorful rollerskates with how much pep he’s got at this time of morning. He looks down at his menu. Everything looked unappetizing when he didn’t know his father’s next move.The flashy photos of hashbrowns and syrupy pancakes didn’t evoke the same homey feeling in him as he’s sure it does to the other patrons. (He knows marketing and business, as if Father hasn’t talked his ear off about it enough.)
“What’s the occasion?” Mike puts down his menu and attempts to make eye contact with the man across from him.
Father sighs heavily, rumbles at a low volume, “Why is it always an interrogation with you? Can’t a father spend time with his son? You must be confused with all that junk you watch late at night. What’s it called…” He snapped his fingers, causing Mike to suppress a flinch, “The Dead and the Deceased!”
“It’s the Immortal and the Restless.” Mike corrected quietly, he studied the vinyl of the tabletop. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Father simply was in a good mood. But then he worries still, because a cheerful demeanor from Father was never without its maroon red strings attached.
“Same difference. All those low-effort soaps all blur into each other. Don’t know how you can stand it. General audiences will make any junk famous.”
Mike decidedly does not bring up how Fredbear landed his own TV show in a similar manner. He remembered Father had been quite upset when the channel refused to let him interfere in the writer’s room. (“Sharing is caring? Christ’s sake, I could write these scripts in my sleep!”)
Ness came by to pour Father his coffee, Mike stared plainly at his cup of water. His father mumbled some pleasantries to Ness, something about how they weren’t ready to order yet. So Mike braced himself for what Father would throw his way this time.
“You are to spend the day with me at Freddy’s.” There it is. “It appears there’s too many employees scheduled today, you would only be a nuisance. So, you’ll be a customer for the day.”
“But–” He can’t. He hasn’t properly hung around at Freddy's since before the bite. Not as a customer at least. Working sketchy under the table day-shifts and dutifully cleaning out human remains during even sketchier night-shifts doesn’t count either. His masked friends ditched him after the news spread around, and nowadays he avoided being seen there as much as possible. All it gets him is unwanted questions and judgy stares.
It was the same feeling he used to get when he had to get groceries for Liz on a Saturday night, friends from school lined up around plastic wrapped produce with their families like a post card. He’d hide behind a display case and when the cashier would ask him “Where is the ever-so-humble Mr. Afton?” he’d lie and say the man wasn’t feeling well and was in the car.
“I need to take care of some business. If you’ve miraculously changed your mind about your diet–or shall I say lack thereof–then you may walk here. I have an arrangement with the owner, he’s happy to serve my child whenever.”
“Can’t I just stay home?” It’s a bummer. He was looking forward to watching The Immortal and the Restless reruns all day in the living room with a big bowl of popcorn; “It’s just- this is so sudden.”
“Any more questions and you’re welcome to make do with the pizza oven at Freddy’s.” Father picked his menu back up to shield his face which pretty much marked the end of that conversation.
Mike slouched in his seat. He gained the nauseating feeling to throw a tantrum. Jeremy’s friend who’s studying Psychology at The University of Utah says it’s normal to become emotionally stunted due to trauma. Well, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Mike bit back mentally. He crossed his arms and rocked his foot under the table as he attempted to let the sixties love song on the outdated jukebox in the corner wash away his troubles.
***
Business never slowed down at Freddy’s even after Charlie and the infamous Missing Children’s Incident. In fact, Mike would say it’s only gotten busier. People like a good “urban legend.” He can’t even blame them, he remembered the fabricated horror stories Evan used to hear from his friends way before any of that, now he can only imagine they’re having a ball with all the new material.
Mike abandoned his former idea of hiding in Father’s shadow throughout their duration here. As soon as he came through the door, several employees were crowding his father asking his opinion on everything from birthday streamer colors to mishaps in the kitchen. Simply put, they were kissing ass. Henry wasn’t here today, but even if he was, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He enables Father all the same, looks to him for every decision like a lost puppy. A man like Henry was not to be the owner of a children’s conglomerate, as much as he was one on paper.
In reality, Father ran the show front and center as naturally as his favorite position was in any room. He merely did Henry the favor of bringing him on under the spotlight.
If that showmanship gene was present–well, it didn’t pass down to Mike at all. He brooded in a corner booth, as far from present eyes as possible. However, that proved easier said than done when he’s surrounded by posters of the cheerful mascots and screaming kids, a stray ball from the pit even hits his shin every once in a while. Freddy and The Gang are singing the newest lead single from When In Rome which was a pleasant song to hear at first but after the tenth performance he’s starting to get a little sick of it. Ever since the tragic events of ‘85, Henry got less attentive with the animatronics–precisely why they’re stuck singing the same quartet of songs.
He remembered being younger, looking up at Freddy and his friends with practically stars in his pre-pubscent eyes, being so amazed that the animatronics could sing dozens of different songs for hours. Henry would lose himself in his work and program in new releases every week. Mike silently wished the same could be said now. How hard is it to keep the old programming even if the songs are outdated? He’d rather hear Physical and Tainted Love over Clive Farrington pleading that he’s sorry but he’s just thinking of the right words to say for the umpteenth time today.
He curled in on himself in his seat, his knuckles could’ve bored through the plastic sheen of the table with how much he was rocking. The stench of their bodies made the paint peel off the muscle of the walls in the saferoom–children’s laughter–Their skin was so, so, red it was almost brown—the sounds of little feet running over ceramic tile—You could almost see the paleness of their bones through the–
“Excuse me, Mister!” A high-pitched voice called out in front of him.
Mike blinked away his invisible tears at an alarming rate and tried to make out the vision facing him. A boy no older than elementary age in an orange sweater which suitably matches his ginger hair, he appears to be holding a fake hook in his hand.
Mike looked past the boy to peer at the other children, lost in their own world and wreaking havoc in the colorful blur of the ballpit; they don’t even notice one of their own has left their playspace.
Focus for one second, could you Mike? He cleared his throat, preparing his customer-service voice he used for the kids and leaned down with his hands on his knees as he sat, “What’s up kid?”
“I lost my toy.” The boy pointed underneath the table at the booth. He leaned his weight to the side of his hook, the way he moved was jerky. If he was up on stage he’d think of asking Henry if he could grease up some joints on his own.
“Oh,” Mike peeked underneath and got up from his seat, “We’ve got to look for it then, yeah? What kind of toy is it?”
Mike looks back at the boy who’s silence is now becoming a bit eerie. He glanced at the shiny hook in the boy’s hand for conversation material.
“Playing pirates? Foxy must be your favorite then?” The boy doesn’t answer, instead he climbs under the table to search, “Well, same here. At least when I was a kid.”
A minute passes and Mike frowns as he hears no sound from underneath. Only the delighted screams of kids chasing each other up and down the aisle of arcade cabinets. Mike stood up to look below the table but found nothing, neither the kid nor his toy.
He studied the barren space. “What the-?”
“Mike!” Michael quickly looked back and braced himself, instead he was met with Ralph. “Sorry kiddo, did I give you a fright?”
“You could say that.” Mike answers absently, still glancing around for any sight of the kid. Almost like he disappeared– It couldn’t be. His father wouldn’t stoop so low to do.. that while Mike is here. Then again, it wasn’t out of the question for Father to get sloppy just to prove to Mike a point or teach him a lesson.
“Say, the party room posters have seen better days surely, do you mind–”
“Where’s Father?” He couldn't stop himself from asking, his hands began to tremble at his sides, “Is he here right now? You should check the cameras if he’s not..” Mike bit down, he’s not trying to incriminate him. He’d be sooner dead than ever get Father caught
“Slow down, kid.” Ralph held his hands up in a surrender motion, “You’re looking for William right?”
Ginger hair, an orange sweatshirt, shiny hook. Mike nodded his head.
“Ah, and here I thought we’d get some quality time. I remember when you were younger you’d always cry for your dad, you couldn’t stand the thought of not being in the same room as him.” Ralph chuckled fondly.
Mike resisted the urge to faint as he blinked back the dark spots in his vision. “So is he here?”
Ralph blinked in surprise. “He didn’t tell you where he was going? Lad took off in such a hurry, I’m surprised you didn’t hear the thunder of that damned car.”
Mike was relieved internally, he held out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. In that case, was he just seeing things? Had the stress under Father’s relentless grip caused hallucinations?
“When was this?”
“Just about as soon as he dropped you off.”
“Oh.”
Father may not have been up to any funny business on the premises, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t up to something anywhere else. For all Mike knows, he could’ve just dumped him here at Freddy’s to hide something from him…
Holy shit.
“Yeah, sorry about that. But I’m still here if you ever want to talk about anyth–” Mike ran outside, the push and pull door slung open behind his path.
***
It’s not a long walk to Sparky’s from here. Although he has to say, there’s a lot less kids soliciting about. He thinks about the inserts in the town newspapers, the ones that urged parents to know where their kids were at all times. Father glared daggers into the paper that day.
Hurricane used to be the kind of town where nobody bothered to lock their doors, where rowdy tweens like himself would bike to Freddy’s and then get drunk in the forest at night. Nobody does that anymore, or at least nobody is inviting him anymore, his mind supplied. Either way, it’s unmistakable at how barren the sidewalks are compared to years before.
He sighed once he arrived at Sparky’s. The silver bell above the door signalled his entrance as his weathered sneakers squeaked along the mopped tile floor. Yet another sixties song filled his ears, a few kids were now huddled around the jukebox.
Mike scanned the premises for his Father and came up empty-handed,”Fuck.” He mumbled under his breath. His plan was to leave but that was foiled as soon as Ness caught an eyeful of him. Now Mike had to sit at the bar counter, lest it get back to Father that his son was behaving erratically.
“Hello again Mr. Aft– Oh! I’m so sorry! I thought you were-”
“Yeah I get that a lot.” Mike cut him off rather rudely. Like it’s not enough that he’s gotten his father’s face but not his two-faced manners. Not his charisma or his dashing words.
“I bet.” Ness set down a plain mug and made a show of covertly pouring from his pot of coffee, "Just between you and me, yeah? Your father has no idea what he’s talking about, I’m afraid if you grow any taller you’ll have to fill an application for a skyscraper.”
Mike creates a poor imitation of a laugh, but if Ness notices he doesn’t mention it. Father must really be a maniac, having to laugh like this all day must really screw with anybody’s head.
“He just wants what’s best for me.” Depending on the day, Mike truly believed that. It’s not like he’d expect anybody else to understand.
“I know he does. He swings by a lot after closing at Freddy’s.” Ness recounted rather fondly, “He’s been through a lot, that man. I keep asking when he’s going to bring you by but he just says you need your space after all your family’s been through…”
Of course he would. Then that begs the question: out of all days, why would Father bring him by today? Now, it might be an image thing. Get Ness off his back and all, but he knows his father, he’d have Ness’s head in a second if it really bothered him. (He feels bad for even thinking about it when the man is in front of him living and breathing and talking.)
“And I always say you’re right. I mean, especially after ‘83. That wasn’t your fault…” Mike stills, he glances around covertly to see the patrons now with their eyes on him. Their heads are politely in front of their mid-day coffees and newspapers but their eyes are trained on Ness’s loud voice, probably geared up to spread whatever gossip to their family dinners.
Mike panicked and tried to stop this at once. “Uh, yeah. Can I just order? I’m really hungry.” Mike hasn’t felt true hunger in a long time but he could definitely make a show of so Ness could shut the fuck up.
Ness quickly shuffled his notepad into view, “Of course Mr. Afton.”
“Please just call me Mike.” He stammered and hoped Ness couldn’t hear the twinge of desperation in his voice.
“Of course, what will it be Mike?”
Mike glanced at the flashy advertisement behind Ness, “Cherry pie à la mode.”
After picking at his pie for half an hour and eventually giving in to realize Sparky’s knows how to make a damn good pie, Mike lingered in the parking lot outside. He sighed in frustration, pulled out his lighter and patted himself down to find his carton of cigarettes. It’s after the lunch rush hour at this point so there won’t be many patrons around to judge the unsavory habit of his.
Everybody and their mothers in this damn town knew Mike. He could only imagine the scandal if it got back to Father. Probably a threatening lecture about maintaining a “family image.” Good grief. He lit the cigarette and huffed, he relished in the temporary numbing buzz and looked up at the sky with his eyes closed.
After the relief of his first drag, Mike decided to assess the situation at hand: Father’s not at Freddy’s nor Sparky’s, he brought him to Sparky’s to decidedly distract him from something. What could a man like his father be trying to hide? Well, there’s too many horrifying implications for that alone.
Father’s either hiding a body or in the process of maiming a body to hide, Mike decides.His heartrate picked up immediately.
But if he were simply hiding a body, he’d ask Mike to assist him like he always has. The new Toys at Freddy’s would be too small for a repeat performance. (But can he ever really doubt his father?) Or maybe his father has gotten sick of him, has ultimately decided his assistance is less than subpar. Does he not love Mike anymore, is Mike not enough? More importantly, he knows what Father does to people he doesn’t need anymore. Like mom.
After the bite, mom barely left her room. He doesn’t have many memories of her during this time. Only that she used to have a tall glass of water every evening without fail. One day, Mike had come home from an informal shift at Freddy’s and was deathly dehydrated. He’d grabbed the glass from its usual place at the kitchen table and after a while it felt like he was moving underwater. The world felt slow with an unnatural smile on his face, all he wanted to do was lay down somewhere for days.
The next day, he remembered seeing Father commandeer the glass of water to her mouth. He never really knew what to do with the information. About a year later, he told Mike to not expect to see her around anymore. Michael didn’t press, although–like with many of his other regrets–he sincerely wished he did. There was no doubt she was dead, Mike wasn’t naive. Now whether his father had a hand to play in this sequence of events, this was where Mike’s mind shies away and suddenly he’s never had an imagination or any ability to read between the lines.
Breathing heavily and feeling his vision form into black spots, Mike took yet another drag but it did nothing to soothe his nerves this time. He angrily stubbed it out with his shoe. If Father’s not in the process of hiding a body then he still has a chance to stop what’s about to happen. But who is he kidding? It’s been at least seven deaths and he still hasn’t stepped up to Father at all. Still, it’ll be better to at least know the situation at hand rather than twiddling his thumbs around at fucking Sparky’s
Suddenly a purple blur enters his vision. Father’s car. That sore sight of a vehicle that screams to everybody he’s near, it can’t be anyone else’s. Mike stares dumbfoundedly at the road he’s headed. It’s neither in the direction of Freddy’s or the house. And he was going way too fast to even think of catching up to him.
Defeated, Mike decides to walk home. He once again has to walk through the ghost town that is this place. The streets that his father has cleared indirectly through late-night news stories and PTA talks.
It took a long forty minutes to get home. However now that he had something in his stomach for once he found that he wasn’t as tired as he usually was. Who knew? He laughed bitterly to himself. On his way back he passed the typical Utah billboards clamoring "THIS END IS NEAR" and "PRAY FOR US SINNERS." One in particular caught his attention, "HELL IS REAL." Yeah and he was living it.
It’s when he opens the door that it happens. Something smells tremendously rotten. At first he’s terrified that Father has brought an actual corpse home. It’d be insanely illogical and Mike would fear that Father had lost his grip on reality for good, that he’d need to send him somewhere. But more likely it’d just be some threat aimed at Mike. The thing with Father’s threats is that they’re always empty. Not because he actually loved Mike as his son, but because Father knew putting him out of his misery would be the kindest thing he’d ever do for Mike.
But the thought is useless because he quickly realized this was not the smell a dead body produces, and Mike–very much against his will–has been around bodies during every stage of decomposition to know. No, this is more like something that has gone bad, rotted to its pit.
It wasn’t the stinging mult-layered scent of a corpse he was familiar with, but Mike still had to hold his nose when he entered the kitchen. He opened the fridge, expecting to see a dairy product that has seen better days, but there’s nothing. In fact, the fridge was just as he left it this morning.
He turned around, only to feel the scent come back ten times stronger. He walks slowly toward the direction and finds the trash can. Makes sense, but Mike has been the only one taking out the trash for years and he knows it’s never smelt this bad.
He opened the trash can, imagining a tar-black banana peel or a cheese that melted through the afternoon heat.
What he found instead made his heart drop to his stomach, his eyes wide like the pie he ate earlier. There must have been well over a dozen milk cartons piled high in the trashcan, all of which adorned with Elizabeth’s picture on the side, underneath in big bold letters: HAVE YOU SEEN ME?
Mike holds his hand over his mouth, “What the…?”
“I see you’re home early, Michael.” The voice caused Mike to nearly jump out of his skin. He glanced back to find Father staring with a smile on his face. He doesn’t know whether to cry or scream.
“I-I… What is this?”
Father doesn’t seem to absorb Mike’s sense of urgency, instead he merely scoffed.
“I don’t understand you, Michael. I give you simple instructions for a reason, then you disobey and become sullen for reasons you could have avoided. Now help me take out that trash, rotten milk smells absolutely abysmal. You’ll have to deep clean this place once I’m done.”
“Take out the…” Mike tries to go over what Father has said. He feels so out of his mind he’s not sure what’s happening. “W-Why?” He finally stands up to face him. “I thought- If she’s missing shouldn’t people see it so they can find her?!”
“It’s been months. Tell me, Michael, what point is there to a wee Sunday Best photograph on a carton of non-fat?”
At his father’s insensitive words, suddenly everything clicks into place.
Of course.
Why was he so damn naive to ever believe otherwise?
Liz wasn’t missing, because she was dead. It explained everything, like his father’s lack of urgency the day he came home from Circus Baby’s without her, and the desire to buy all the milk cartons to hide the evidence. His cheeks felt warm and moist at the involuntary tears streaming down them.
Father took a step forward, still possessing an easy-going grin on his face.
“Stay away from me.” Mike tried his best to walk back, making his gaze fierce was difficult when it was clouded with tears.
“You’re hysterical. Let me-”
“NO!” Mike screamed with a volume that startled even himself. He flinched at the sound that echoed off the walls, even Father looked stunned for a second. Be it his rage subconsciously pent up for years, or the realization that Liz was gone at the hands of the man in front of him. Of course Father only showed his cards for a brief moment before the mask overtook his features once again.
“All those times- I drove for hours until my eyes hurt looking for her.” Mike backed up until he hit the kitchen counter, he couldn’t physically escape anymore. “And you let me knowing that..knowing that she’s..” He hiccuped against his tears.
Father tilted his head, melting Mike’s icy stare. “Knowing that she’s what?” The fucker smiled.
Mike met his gaze right back. “You. Know.”
Immediately two arms came down to cage him against the counter. “Whatever nonsense you’re imagining, drop it. There’s a larger picture at hand, far more advanced than what you’re able to conjure. Of course you couldn't, you're too busy thinking of yourself.”
“Is she or is she not?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re referring to. In fact, now you’ve frightened me.”
“Oh, come on-” Mike scoffed.
“My beloved son is making up a reality of his own, is a father not to be scared?”
Mike’s stare was venomous, but then he thought about it. Wasn’t he seeing things back at Freddy’s? The boy who disappeared..ginger hair, orange sweater, shiny hook. The stiff anger once present in his body faltered.
And all it took was the sound of his father’s voice. How pathetic.
“You were always one for temper tantrums.” Father coos, as if Michael has just done the most adorable thing.
Michael continued crying. Feeling all of the repressed emotions the past few hours hit him at once, he can’t stop, he just cries even harder when he thinks about it. Everything felt like it was just now crashing down on him. He’s seeing things, he can’t trust his own judgement, and this house feels more like four blank walls than a home.
“Mike, stop crying.” Mike refuses, “Come on, it smells horrible in here.” Father begins laughing. He used to do this, Back when he was a real father. This was how he comforted all of them, simply by laughing until the other person was too. “You’re crying next to rotted lactose, you’re so silly.” He keeps laughing.
Against his body’s will, Mike’s tears stalled. They slowed down in intervals. This must be what Stockholm Syndrome feels like, Mike thinks distantly as he attempted to catch his breath.
He stopped hiding his face, looked up to see his Father’s smile. It’s fake but his body doesn’t know it from the way it craves his warmth. “Oh, come here Michael.” And he does. He runs to his father’s embrace. Where else does he have to run to? Where else?
His tears came slower when Father wrapped his arms around him, he patted through his hair and held him close. So warm, his body clicked into a place his mind was warring with. After a few minutes when Mike’s breathing came down to a normal pace, Father pulled back to look him in the eye.
“Do you want to see her?”
Mike's eyes went big, he took in the words and hiccuped, “Is she–?” Could it really be?
Father pulled his arms back far too soon, the absence of the embrace now giving way to a freezing cold sensation. “I’ll need your help.”
“Yes,” Mike nodded all too fast, “Anything.” Mike thinks that the blue kitchen tiles would look down at the two in shame if they could.
“I want you to put her back together.”
What? “H-How?”
“You’ll know when you see her.” Father adjusted his tie, “I have some..unfinished work at the old Freddy’s location.”
“Can I help?” Because it’s in Mike’s instinct to ask. Would you like breakfast, Father? Can I take your coat, Father? Can I watch the town population go down, down, down as I lay at your feet, Father?
Father waved him off, “No, no. I’m one of the only ones who can access the safe room. I’ll return promptly, just remember my words.”
“Put her back together.” Mike repeated slowly.
“Precisely, I’ll give you proper instructions on how to get there before I leave.”
Father’s eyes glimmered unnaturally, "You know, Michael… My work is only doubling in weight these days. After I return, we shall see about making you my formal assistant.”