The pizza parlor is still.
Not the stillness of closing time, when the last employee locks up and the overheads click off. That stillness has come and gone. This is the stillness of three in the morning, when even the rats have stopped scurrying between the broken arcade cabinets.
The only light spills from a single, buzzing sign above the stage: Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza — Celebrating 35 Years of Fun!
On the stage, three figures sit motionless. A bear, brown and squat, with a black top hat and a microphone clutched in one furry paw. A rabbit, deep violet, a red guitar strapped across his chest. A chicken, yellow, a bib reading “LET’S EAT!!!” askew on her chest.
To the left of the stage, a curt, drawn curtain hides the fourth.
Nothing moves.
Nothing breathes.
Then—
???
Click.
A flashlight beam cuts across the darkness.
???
…huh.
It sweeps across empty tables littered with half-eaten birthday hats. It lingers on a discarded cup stained dark with old soda. It stops on the stage.
Michael
Good God… They really do look just like the old photos.
The man holding the flashlight steps further into the room. He’s in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with a worn-out jacket and an expensive-looking tape recorder strapped to his belt.
He’s not supposed to be here. His name—scrawled on the faded paperwork he’d forged—says he’s a night guard. But his eyes, scanning the dark with a mix of fascination and fear, say otherwise.
Michael
He whispers to himself as he presses the RECORD button on his chest.
Friday, July 16th. Arrived on site 1:12 AM. The generators are still running; no idea for how long.
The tape reels spin.
Michael
I’m going to start with the stage. Equipment test. See if I can get a reading, see if there’s anything to all those old death certificates.
He takes a step closer. He’s looking at the animatronics—no, through them, at the space where a child’s ghost might be hiding.
He doesn’t see the wires that run from the bear’s arm, no, the twitch at the tip of the rabbit’s ear.