“Jessica, are you okay?” She whispered.
Jessica looked up, smiling.
“You won’t believe this.”
She was pointing at the wall, and Charlie leaned over to see. There, etched in the worn brick, were clumsy letters, almost illegible in a child’s handiwork:
Carlton smells like feet.
“You have to be kidding me.” John whispered in awe, turning to face the wall and placing both hands against it. “I recognize these bricks.” He laughed. “These are the same bricks!” His smile faded. “They didn’t tear it down; they built around it.”
“It’s still here!” Jessica unsuccessfully tried to keep her voice down. “There has to be a way in,” she added, her eyes wide with an almost childish excitement.
Charlie shone the flashlight up and down the hallway, playing the light off each wall, but there was no break, no door.
“There was a back door to Freddy’s.” John said. “Marla wrote that right next to the back door, right?”
“Why didn’t they just knock it down?” Charlie pondered.
“Does this hallway just lead nowhere?” Jessica said, puzzled.
“It’s the story of my life,” Carlton said lightly.
“Wait…” Charlie ran her fingers along the edge of a shelf, peering through the odds and ends crammed onto it. The wall behind it looked different; it was metal, not brick. “Right here.” She stepped back and looked at the others.
“Help me move it,” she said. John and Jessica pressed against one side in a unified effort, and she and Carlton pulled on the other. It was immensely heavy, laden with cleaning supplies and large buckets of nails and tools, but it slid farther down the hall almost easily, without incident. Jessica stepped back, breathing hard.
“John, give me the big light again.” He handed it over and she turned it back on, aiming where the shelf had stood. “This is it,” she said.
It was metal and rusting, and spattered with paint, a stark contrast with the walls around it. There was only a hole where the handle had been; someone must have removed it so the shelf could lie flush against the door.
Silently, Charlie handed the flashlight back to John, and he held it above her head so she could see. She slipped around the others and tried to squeeze her fingers into the hole where the doorknob once was, trying to pull it open to no avail.
“It’s not going to open.” she said. John was behind her, peering over her shoulder.
“Just a second.” He squeezed himself into the space beside her and knelt carefully. “I don’t think it’s locked or anything,” he said, “I think it’s just rusty. Look at it.”
The door extended all the way to the floor, its bottom ragged and unfinished. The hinges were on the other side, and the edges were caked in rust. It looked as though it had not been opened in years. John and Charlie pulled on it together, and it moved a fraction of an inch.
“Yay!” Jessica exclaimed, almost shouting, then covered her mouth. “Sorry,” she said in a whisper. “Containing my excitement.”
They took turns pulling on it, leaning over one another, the metal scraping their fingers. It held for a long moment, then came loose under their weight, swinging open slowly with an unearthly screech. Charlie looked nervously over her shoulder, but the guard did not appear. The door opened only about a foot wide, and they went one by one, until all four were through.
Inside, the air changed, and they all stopped short. Ahead of them was a dark hallway, familiar to them all.
“Is this…?” Jessica whispered, not taking her eyes from the dark expanse.
It’s here, Charlie thought. She held out her hand for the flashlight, and John handed it to her wordlessly. She shone the light ahead of them, sweeping the walls. They were covered in children’s drawings, crayon on yellowing, curling paper. She started forward and the others followed, feet shuffling on old tile.
It seemed to take forever to traverse the hall, or perhaps it was just that they were moving slowly, with methodical, deliberate steps. Eventually the hallway opened up into a larger expanse: the dining room. It was just as they remembered it, completely preserved. The big flashlight light bounced off a thousand little things, reflective, glittered, or topped with foil ribbon.
The tables were still in place, covered in their silver-and-white checked cloths; the chairs were pulled up to them haphazardly; some tables with too many and others with too few. It looked as though the room had been abandoned in the middle of the lunch hour: everyone had gotten up expecting to return, but never did. They walked in cautiously, breathing cold stale air that had been trapped inside for a decade. The whole restaurant gave off a sense of abandonment—no one was coming back. There was a small merry-go-round barely visible in the distant corner, with four child-sized ponies still at rest from their last song. In an instant, Charlie froze in place, as did the others. There they were. Eyes stared back from the dark, large and lifeless. An illogical panic pulsed through her; time held still. No one spoke; no one breathed, as though a predatory animal was stalking them. But as the moments passed, the fear waned, until she was back again, as a child, and with old friends, separated from one another for far too long. Charlie walked toward the eyes in a straight line. Behind her the others were motionless: hers were the only footsteps. As Charlie walked, she touched the cold back of an old party chair without looking at it, guiding it out of her path. She took one final step, and the eyes in the dark became clear. It was them. Charlie smiled.
“Hi,” she whispered, too soft for the others to hear.
Before her stood three animatronic animals: a bear, a rabbit, and a chicken, all standing as tall as adults, maybe taller. Their bodies were segmented like artists’ models, each limb made of distinct, squarish pieces, separate at the joints. They belonged to the restaurant, or maybe the restaurant belonged to them, and there was a time when everyone knew them by name. There was Bonnie, the rabbit. His fur was a bright blue, his squared-off muzzle held a permanent smile and his wide and chipped pink eyes were thick-lidded, giving him a perpetually worn-out expression. His ears stuck up straight, crinkling over at the top, and his large feet splayed out for balance. He held a red bass guitar, blue paws poised to play, and around his neck was a bowtie that matched the instrument’s fiery color.
Chica the Chicken was more bulky, and had an apprehensive look, thick black eyebrows arched over her purple eyes and her beak slightly open, revealing teeth, as she held out a cupcake on a platter. The cupcake itself was somewhat disturbing, with eyes set into its pink frosting and teeth hanging out over the cake, a single candle sticking out the top.
“I always expected the cupcake to jump off the plate.” Carlton gave a half-laugh and cautiously stepped up to Charlie’s side. “They seem taller than I remember,” he added in a whisper.
“That’s because you never got this close as a kid.” Charlie smiled, at ease, and stepped closer.
“You were busy hiding under tables,” Jessica said from behind them, still some distance away.
Chica wore a bib around her neck with the words “Let’s Eat!” set out in purple and yellow against a confetti-covered background, and a tuft of feathers stuck up in the middle of her head.
Standing between Bonnie and Chica was Freddy Fazbear himself, namesake of the restaurant. He was the most genial-looking of the three, giving no hint that he would rather be somewhere else. A robust, if lean, brown bear, he smiled down at the audience, holding a microphone in one paw, sporting a black bow-tie and top hat. The only incongruity in his features was the color of his eyes, a bright blue that surely no bear had ever had before him. His mouth hung open and his eyes were partially closed, as though he had been frozen in song.
Carlton drew closer to the stage until his knees pressed against the rim of it. “Hey Freddy.” He whispered. “Long time no see.”
He reached out and grabbed at the microphone, wiggling it to see if he could get it loose.
“Don’t!” Charlie blurted, looking up into
Freddy’s fixed gaze as though making sure he hadn’t noticed.
Carlton pulled his hand back like he had touched something hot.
“Sorry.”
“Come on,” John said, cracking a smile. “Don’t you want to see the rest of the place?” They spread out across the room, peering into corners and carefully trying doors, acting as though everything might be breakable to the touch. John went over to the small carousel, and Carlton disappeared into the dark arcade off the main room.
“I remember it being a lot brighter and noisier in here.” Carlton smiled as though at home again, running his hands over the aging knobs and flat plastic buttons. “I wonder if my high-scores are still in there,” he muttered to himself.
To the left of the stage was a small hallway. Half-hoping no one would notice where she had gone, Charlie started down it silently, as the others occupied themselves with their own curiosities. At the end of the short, plain corridor was her father’s office. It had been Charlie’s favorite place in the restaurant; she liked to play with her friends in the main area, but she loved the singular privilege of coming back here when her father was doing paperwork. She paused outside the closed door, her hand poised over the knob, remembering. Most of the room was filled with his desk, his filing cabinets, and small boxes of uninteresting parts. In one corner was a smaller filing cabinet, painted a salmon color that Charlie had always insisted was pink. That had been Charlie’s. The bottom drawer held toys and crayons, and the top had what she liked to call “my paperwork.” It was mostly coloring books and drawings, but occasionally she would go over to her father’s desk, and try to copy down whatever he was writing in a childish, crayoned hand. Charlie tried the door, but it was locked. Better this way, she thought. The office was personal, and she did not really want it opened tonight.
She headed back into the main dining room and found John looking pensively at the merry-go-round. He eyed her with curiosity, but did not ask where she had gone.
“I used to love this thing.” Charlie smiled, approaching warmly. Yet now the painted figures seemed odd and lifeless to her.
John made a face, as though he knew what she was thinking.
“Not the same,” he said. He rubbed his hand over the top of a polished pony as though to scratch it behind the ear. “Just not the same,” he repeated, removing his hand and gazing elsewhere. Charlie glanced over to see where the others were—in the arcade, she could see Jessica and Carlton wandering among the games.
The consoles stood still and unlit like massive tombstones, their screens blank. “I never liked playing the games.” Jessica said, smiling. “They moved too fast, and just when I’d start to figure out what to do, I’d die and it would be someone else’s turn.” She said as she wiggled a joystick that squeaked from neglect.
“They were rigged anyway.” Carlton said with a wink.
“When’s the last time you played one of these?” Jessica said, peering closely into one of the screens to see what image was burned into it from too many years of use. Carlton was busy rocking a pinball machine back and forth trying to get a ball to come loose.
“Uh, there’s a pizza place I visit sometimes.” He set the table back on four legs carefully and glanced at Jessica. “But it’s no Freddy’s.” He added.
John was roaming through the dining room again amidst the tables, flicking the stars and spirals hanging overhead. He plucked a red party hat from the table, stretched the rubber bank hanging loosely from its base and snapped it around his head, red and white tassels hanging down over his face.
“Oh, let’s check out the kitchen,” he said. Charlie followed as he bounded off toward it.
Although the kitchen had been off limits to her friends, she’d spent a lot of time there, so much so that the chefs chased her out by name, or at least by the name they heard her father call her: Charlotte. John overheard someone calling her Charlotte one day when they were in kindergarten, and persisted in teasing her with it constantly. He could always get a rise out of her with that. It wasn’t that Charlie didn’t like her full name, but “Charlie” was who she was to the world. Her father called her Charlotte, and it was like a secret between them, something no one else was allowed to share. The day she left Hurricane for good, the day they said goodbye, John had hesitated.
“’Bye, Charlie,” he said. In their cards and letters, in phone calls, he had never called her Charlotte again. She never asked why, and he never told her.
The kitchen was still fully stocked with pots and pans, but it held little interest for Charlie in the midst of her memories. She headed back out into the open space of the dining room and John followed. At the same time, Jessica and Carlton stumbled out of the arcade, tripping into each other as they crossed the thresholds between rooms in the dark.
“Anything interesting?” John asked.
“Uh, a gum wrapper, thirty cents, and Jessica, so no, not really.” Carlton said. Jessica playfully gave him a punch in the shoulder.
“Oh, have we all forgotten?” Jessica gave an evil smile, pointing to another hallway on the opposite side of the dining room. She headed toward it swiftly before anyone could answer, and they followed her. The hallway was long and narrow, and the further they went, the less the flashlight seemed to illuminate. At last the passage opened out into a small room for private parties, set up with its own tables and chairs. As they entered, there was a collective hush. There in front of them was a small stage, the curtain drawn. A sign was strung across the front: “Out of Order,” it read in neat handwritten letters. They stood still for a minute, then Jessica went up to it, and poked the sign.
“Ten years later and it’s still out of order.” She said.
Don’t touch it, Charlie thought.
“I had one birthday back here.” John said. “It was out of order then too.” He took hold of the edge of the curtain and rubbed the glittered fabric between his fingers.
No, Charlie wanted to say again, but stopped. You’re being silly, she chided herself.
“Do you think he’s still back there?” Jessica said playfully, threatening to make the reveal with one giant swing on the curtain.
“I’m sure he is.” John gave a false smile, seeming uncomfortable for the first time.
Yes, he’s still there, Charlie thought. She stepped back cautiously, suddenly becoming aware of the drawings and posters surrounding them like spiders on the wall. Charlie’s flashlight carefully inched from picture to picture, all depicting different variations of the same character: a large and energetic pirate fox with a patch over one eye and a hook for a hand, usually swinging in to deliver a pizza to hungry children.
“This is the room where you were the one hiding under tables.” Jessica said to Charlie, trying to laugh.
“But you’re a big girl now, right?” Jessica climbed up on the stage unsteadily, almost losing her footing. John reached out a hand to steady her as she righted herself. She giggled nervously, looking down at the others as though for guidance, than grabbed hold of the tasseled edge of the fabric. She waved her other hand in front of her face as dust fell from the cloth.
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea?” She laughed, but there was an edge to her voice, like she really meant it, and she looked down at the stage for a moment, as though poised to climb back down. Still, she didn’t move, taking the edge of the curtain again.
“Wait,” John said. “Can you hear that?” They were all dead quiet, and in the silence Charlie could hear them all breathing. John’s breaths were deliberate and calm, Jessica’s quick and nervous. As she thought about it her own breathing began to feel odd, like she had forgotten how to do it.
“I don’t hear anything,” she said.
“Me neither,” Jessica echoed. “What is it?”
“Music, it’s coming from-” he gestured back the way they had come.
“From the stage?” Charlie cocked her head to the side. “I don’t hear it.”
“It’s like a music box,” he said. Charlie and Jessica
listened carefully but their blank expressions didn’t change. “It stopped, I guess.” John returned his gaze forward.
“Maybe it was an ice cream truck.” Jessica whispered.
“Hey, that wouldn’t be so bad right now.” John appreciated the levity.
Jessica turned her attention back to the curtain, but John began to hum a tune to himself. “It reminded me of something,” he mumbled.
“Okay, here I go!” Jessica announced. She did not move. Charlie found her eyes drawn to Jessica’s hand on the curtain, her pink-manicured nails pale against the dark, glittery fabric. It was almost like the hushed moment in a theater crowd, when the lights go dark but the curtain has not yet risen. They were all still, all anticipating, but they were not watching a play, no longer playing a game. All the mirth had gone out of Jessica’s face; her cheekbones stood out stark in the shadows and her eyes looked grim, as though the simple thing she was about to do might be of terrible consequence. As Jessica hesitated, Charlie realized her hand hurt; she was making a fist so tight her nails dug into her flesh, but she could not force her grip to loosen.
A crash sounded from back the way they came, a cascading, clanging noise ringing out and filling the whole space. John and Charlie froze, meeting each other’s eyes in sudden panic. Jessica dropped the curtain and leapt off the stage, bumping into Charlie and knocking the light out of her hands.
“Where’s the way out?!” she exclaimed, and John came over to help. They hurriedly searched the walls and Charlie chased the light beam spiraling across the floor. Just as they were all back to their feet, Carlton came trotting in.
“I knocked over a bunch of pots in the kitchen!” Carlton exclaimed, an apology amid the panic.
“I thought you were with us,” Charlie said.
“I wanted to see if there was any food left,” Carlton said, not making it clear if he’d found anything or not.
“Seriously?” John laughed.
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