Five Nights at Freddy's_The Silver Eyes

by Scott Cawthon

  Freddy began to pivot toward the table that they were under. Marla put a hand on Jason’s arm, steadying him. There was another pause. Lamar, under the table opposite them, was beckoning to Marla and Jason, urging them to his own table, farther away from Freddy. Marla shook her head, not wanting to risk making noise. Maybe he’s leaving, she told herself. Jason was beginning to breathe normally again, then it struck them: Freddy was ducking down again, this time silently. His eyes had gone dark, but as soon as they spotted him they lit up again, illuminating the room. Marla and Jason scrambled around the metal chairs as fast as they could without touching them. They crawled across the thin carpet between tables until they came across an opening in the chairs and crawled under the table beside Lamar. Marla and Lamar looked at each other, at a loss; Freddy was straightened up again, and began to circle around to the third table. “We have to run for the door.” Marla whispered. Lamar nodded, then motioned for them to follow his lead. He watched, waited until Freddy was bending down once again, and then gestured to the middle table. They caught their breath, trying not to gasp and Lamar looked toward the door: could they make it? Marla put a hand on Jason’s shoulder, and he started to shrug her off, but she was gripping him tightly, her fingers digging into him. He moved to brush her away, then looked at her; she was terrified, even more than he was. He let her hold onto him, and kept his eyes on Freddy, waiting for their next opening.

  It didn’t come. As they waited, poised for flight, Freddy turned away, his deliberate steps taking him to the doorway. The room went dark, and Jason’s heart skipped before he understood what had happened: the lights were gone because Freddy was gone.

  “Marla,” he whispered, his voice little more than a breath of air. “He’s gone.” Marla looked at him and nodded, but she did not let go of his shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” She asked, in the same, almost soundless way. He nodded, then pointed to his leg and shrugged theatrically. She smiled at him, and took her hand from his shoulder to muss his hair.

  Suddenly Lamar was tapping Marla’s arm. He pointed to his ear, and she gave him a puzzled look. Jason stiffened, realizing what it was, and in a second Marla did, too. There was music in the room, a tinny, labored sound like a music box, the gaps between the notes just a little too long. The room lit up again, a drowning red, and before they could move, the table was wrenched away, and Freddy was standing over them. He shoved the table aside, almost hurling it. They screamed, a wailing, primal sound—not a scream for help but the last, futile act of defiance. Jason clung to his sister, and she pulled his head down against her, shielding his eyes so he would not have to see.

  Suddenly, Freddy stumbled off balance and lurched to the side. He tried to right himself, but another jolt from behind sent him flying forward, falling face-first into the tables. Marla, Lamar, and Jason looked up to see Charlie and John, their faces flushed with effort.

  “Come on,” Charlie said. “Let’s go.”

  Dave shrugged out of his bonds quickly; the knots were sturdy, but the cords had too much give—a few twists and turns and he was free. He crawled to the door on hands and knees and held his ear to the crack, careful not to jostle the door and give himself away.

  The loudspeaker blared, and then the sound he had been waiting for: footsteps, running away.

  He waited just until the sound faded, then got purposefully to his feet.

  “Where are we going?” Marla panted as they raced back toward the main dining room.

  “The office,” Charlie called. “It’s got a real door; we can barricade ourselves in.” She glanced at John, who nodded shortly. What they would do once they were barricaded inside was another question, but they could worry about that once they were safe. They ran through the dining room; Charlie glanced at the stage, blurred in passing, but she saw what she knew she would see: it was empty.

  They reached the narrow hall that led to the office and Charlie’s heart lifted when she saw the door, light shining from its small window like a beacon.

  Wait, light?

  She slowed her pace; they were ten feet from the door. She lifted a hand, signaling the others to stop, and they approached the door slowly. Steeling herself, Charlie grabbed the knob and turned. It was locked. She looked helplessly at the others.

  “Someone’s in there,” Jason whispered, moving closer to Marla.

  “There’s no one else here,” Marla said softly, but it sounded like a question. Charlie was about to try the door again, but stopped herself. Don’t draw their attention.

  “He got loose!” Jessica said, her voice horse, and Charlie felt a chill. She’s right. She didn’t say it.

  “We have to go back,” she said. Without waiting for a response, she turned, pushing between Lamar and John to take the lead. She took two steps forward, then stopped dead as she heard the others gasp.

  It was Chica, her eyes like burning orange headlights.

  She stood at the other end of the short hall, blocking their only way out. Her body filled the space; they could not even try to run past her. Charlie glanced behind her, even though she knew there was no other way out. Before she could react, John was running at the animatronic. He had no weapons, but he hurtled himself toward the thing and leaped up, trying to grab hold of its neck. He caught it briefly, struggling to hold on as Chica, blinded, swung her head back and forth. Chica bent forward and swung to the side, slamming John into the wall, and John let go, crumpling to the floor. The cupcake on Chica’s platter snapped its mouth as if laughing, its eyes rolling in their tiny sockets.

  “John!” Charlie cried, and thrust the flashlight back for someone else to take. She felt its weight leave her hands but didn’t look back to see who took it; she was looking up. There was an electrical cord loose above their heads, just peeking out from the low ceiling. Chica was slowly advancing. Charlie jumped up, but she could not get high enough to reach it. She looked to either side. Is it narrow enough? She glanced at Chica . She was moving slowly, with measured steps; they were trapped, and she did not need to hurry. Charlie planted one foot against the wall, then stretched her leg across the narrow hallway and did the same on the other side, bracing between the walls to climb. She inched upward, her legs shaking with the effort; she stretched up, fumbling for the cord, unable to look up without losing her balance. Her fingers closed around it, and she dropped to the ground as Chica lunged forward, her arms extended and her teeth contorted to a mechanical smile.

  Charlie sprang up, the ripped electrical cord brandished in front of her, and she shoved it into the space between Chica’s head and his torso. It jerked backward, sparks flying, and for a horrible moment, Charlie could not move. Her hand was throbbing with the electric current and she was caught there, unable make her hand let go of the wire. She stared down at it, willing her fingers to open. Is this how I die? Lamar grabbed her and pulled her away, and she looked up at him wide-eyed for a moment. The others were already running; Chica was deactivated, or so it appeared, slumped forward, her eyes dark. Lamar gave her arm a tug, and they took off after the others.

  With a distasteful smile, Dave watched the confrontation through the window in the office door. Just a matter of time now, he thought. The girl had been clever, climbing the walls like that, but she had almost killed herself. They could not last much longer. All he had to do was wait.

  Suddenly, the room was lit with an ethereal blue. He froze, then slowly turned. Bonnie. The animatronic was towering over him, close enough to touch. Dave fell back against the door and screamed.

  There was a scream from the direction of the office. The group paused for a minute and looked nervously at one another.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. “Come on.”

  She took a quick look back at Chica, who was still slumped forward, inert. Charlie led them into the main dining room. As they emerged, there was a sudden movement. Foxy was there.

  He leapt onto a table in front of them, looking among them until his silver eyes lit on Jason. He crou
ched as if he were about to leap on the boy, and Charlie grabbed a napkin dispenser and threw it as hard as she could. It struck Foxy’s head, glancing off with little effect, but it was enough to get his attention. He turned to her, and pounced.

  Charlie was already running, racing to lure him away from the others. Then what? She thought as she ran furiously out of the dining room and down the hall. The arcade. It was dark; there were things to hide behind.

  She kept running full-out until she reached the door, then turned so fast she almost fell, hoping to give Foxy a moment’s disorientation. She looked around frantically; there was a row of arcade machines at the back of the room, set out just a little from the wall. She heard footsteps behind her, and dove for it.

  The space was so tight she could barely squeeze herself into it. Her sides were pressed between the consoles and the wall, and there were thick, coiled wires beneath her feet. She took a step back, moving deeper into the crawl space, but her foot slipped on a cable, and she barely kept from falling. Movement in the room caught her eye, and she saw a flash of silver light.

  He sees me.

  Charlie dropped to her hands and knees. She crawled backward, scooting inch by inch. Her foot caught on a cable and she stopped to free it, twisting into an impossible position to quietly dislodge it. She moved back farther, then her foot bumped against another wall, and she stopped. She was closed in on three sides; it almost felt safe. She closed her eyes for a moment. Nothing here is safe.

  There was an awful sound, a clash of metal hitting metal, and the console at the far end of the row rocked on its foundation, banging back against the wall. Foxy leaned over it and now Charlie could see him as he smashed the display, spilling shattered shards of plastic onto the floor. His hook caught on something inside the machine, and he yanked it out again, trailing bits of wire.

  He moved on to the next game, smashing the screen and throwing the console against the wall with a casual brutality. Charlie felt the impact of it, echoing through the wall as he moved closer.

  I have to get out, I have to! But there was no way out. Now that she was sitting in one place, she realized that her arm was stiff with pain, and only now did she look at it; the bandage was soaked through with blood; the wall beside her was streaked with a line of it, where her arm had pressed against the wall. She wanted to cry, suddenly; her whole body ached: the wound in her arm, the constant tension of the last day or so—who could tell how long it had been?—draining her, taking all she had.

  The next console crashed against the wall and Charlie flinched: it was only two away. He was almost to her. She could hear his gears working, humming and grinding and sometimes screeching. She closed her eyes, but she could still see him, his matted fur, the metal bones showing through, and the searing silver eyes.

  The console beside her was wrenched away, tumbled to the ground like it weighed nothing at all. The cords beneath Charlie’s hands and knees jerked forward with it, and she slipped, grabbing at nothing, trying to regain her balance. She caught herself and looked up, just in time to see the downward swing of a hook.

  She moved faster than she could think: she hurled herself at the final console with all her strength, and it balanced precariously, then fell, knocking Foxy to the ground and trapping him. Charlie started to run, but his hook shot out and snared her leg, cutting into her. She screamed, falling to the ground. She kicked at him with her other foot, but his hook was stuck deep in her leg and every time he jerked back she felt the impact. She kicked him in the face and he tore free, slicing open her leg. She screamed again, instinctively grabbing the wound, and Foxy was on top of her, snapping his jaws and clawing her as he tried to free his legs from under the console. She fought back, struggling to get away. His hook slashed at her again and again as she tried to block the blows, screaming again for help.

  Suddenly, John was there. He stood over Foxy and stomped down hard on the creature’s neck, holding his foot there. Foxy flailed, but could not reach him.

  “Charlie, get up!” He called, who just stared at him for a second, too shaken to register the question. He stamped his foot on Foxy’s neck again and again, then in one quick movement, he grabbed Charlie’s hand, heaved her up, and started to run, holding onto her hand, pulling her along behind him. They made it to the main dining room, where the rest of the group was huddled in the middle of the room. Relieved, Charlie rushed to join them; she could tell she was limping, but she did not feel any pain, which, she realized somewhere dimly in the back of her mind, was not good. When they got to the others, her heart sank. Their faces were grim. Lamar was holding the flashlight out in front of him, but it rattled in his trembling grip.

  Marla gestured quickly to the entrances: Freddy stood in the hall to the storage room, while Bonnie now blocked the way to the office. Chica, reanimated, stood on the stage, looming over them. Charlie glanced back the way they had come.

  Foxy was approaching; he had freed himself. He stopped in the doorway as if waiting for a signal. There was no escape. Suddenly acutely aware of everything around her, Charlie noticed the sound of a music box, as if she had, unconsciously, been hearing it all along. She took a deep breath. The moment seemed to go on forever. It had come to this; they were trapped. They waited. Now, perhaps, for the animatronics, there was no hurry. Charlie cast her eyes around futilely for a weapon, but there were only the party hats and paper plates.

  As one, the animatronics started their approach. Charlie grabbed the back of a metal folding chair, not sure how she could even use it. The animals were moving faster now, coming in unison, as if this battle were a choreographed dance. Marla took Jason’s hand and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was, he shook his head, set his jaw, and balled his hands into fists. Lamar glanced at him for a moment, but said nothing. Jessica had her hands stiffly at her sides, and she was murmuring something to herself, inaudible. The animals were almost on top of them: the music-box notes were coming from Freddy’s direction—from inside Freddy, she now realized, and his trundling walk was predatory. Chica leaped from the stage and took small, bouncing steps toward them as if excited, holding herself back. Bonnie’s big paw-like feet slapped the ground like a challenge, and Foxy slunk forth with a malevolent grace, his eyes fixed on Charlie as if she were the only thing he saw. She gazed into the silver eyes, they filled her vision, crowding out everything else, until the world was silver, the world was Foxy’s eyes, and there was nothing left of her.

  John squeezed her hand and it broke the spell; she looked at him, her vision still cloudy.

  “Charlie,” he said haltingly. “… Charlotte—”

  “Shh,” she said. “Later.” He nodded, accepting the lie, that there would be a later. Foxy crouched down again, and Charlie let go of John, her heart pounding as she braced for it. Foxy’s joints shifted in their sockets as he prepared to spring—and he stopped. Charlie waited. There were no screams from behind her, no sounds of fighting; even the music box was silent. Foxy was motionless, though his eyes still glowed. She looked around, and then she saw.

  It was Freddy. Not the one they all knew, not the one who stood less than a foot away from Marla, his mouth open as if poised to bite. It was the other one, the one she remembered, the yellow Freddy from the diner. The costume her father used to wear. It was looking at them, staring from the corner, and now, she heard something. It was indistinct, just whispers in her head, a gentle susurrus, blowing through her conscious mind without taking hold. She looked at the others, and knew they heard it too; it was indecipherable, yet the meaning was unmistakable.

  Carlton was the one to say it:

  “Michael?”

  The sounds they heard grew warm, an unspoken confirmation, and together, they approached the golden bear. Marla brushed past brown Freddy as if he were not there, and Charlie turned her back to Foxy, unafraid. There was only one thought in her mind: Michael. It’s you.

  They were almost to him; all Charlie wanted to do was fling her arms around him, hold him close,
and to be again the little girl she was so long ago. To embrace him again, this beloved child, who had been ripped from their lives on that carefree afternoon; to do it all over, and this time to rescue him, this time to save his life. “Michael,” she whispered.

  The yellow bear stood motionless. Unlike the others, there seemed to be nothing inside of it; it stood of its own accord, by its own will. There was nothing to hold the costumed jaw closed, and its eyes were empty.

  Suddenly aware that their backs were turned to the other animals, Charlie startled and turned, apprehensive. Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy were standing at rest, almost as if they were back on their stages. Their eyes were locked on Charlie, but they had halted their approach.

  “It’s the kids.” Carlton whispered.

  “Foxy wasn’t attacking Jason.” Marla gasped. “Foxy was trying to protect him.”

  John took hesitant steps toward the middle of the dining room, then approached more boldly, looking at each of the robots in turn. “All of them.” Their faces were no longer animalistic, no longer lifeless.

  Suddenly, there was a crash from the sealed exit door.

  They all startled, turning as one as the wall beside the welded entrance shook with the force of a dozen blows.

  Now what? Charlie thought.

  The bricks broke and fell, scattering in pieces across the floor, their dust filling the air in rusty clouds. A figure stepped through the hole, wielding a massive sledgehammer, and as the air slowly cleared, they saw who it was: Clay Burke, Carlton’s father.

  His eyes set on Carlton, and he dropped the hammer and ran to his son, sweeping him into an embrace. He stroked his hair, gripping him like he would never let go. Charlie watched from her distance, relief touched by a stiletto edge of envy.