Chapter Text
11/10/2005 – Hurricane, Utah
"Not again," Mike thought aloud. It had been getting worse lately. Was it an omen? Just trauma? Whatever the case, the nightmares had returned—those vivid, horribly real nightmares tied to the experiences he’d lived through at Freddy’s.
“Wake up. Please wake up!” Mike screamed, even though he knew it wouldn’t help. It never did.
Mike—also known as Michael—watched in horror as the creature Vanessa had dubbed “Torture Freddy,” and Abby had nicknamed “Shreddy,” slowly crept toward him, its mechanical limbs whirring softly with anticipation.
5
Mike thrashed against the restraints, trying to break free with raw strength—but the trap didn’t budge.
4
Desperate, he slammed the back of his head against the chair, hoping the pain would shock him awake. It didn’t.
3
“It’s me,” said a voice from the doorway in front of him—so close, yet just out of reach.
2
That blonde kid again? Mike thought, and immediately scoffed at the irony—realizing who someone is during a dream doesn’t make it less of a dream.
1
It was always that child. The one who had wanted Abby. His sister never knew the kid’s name, unlike with the others. She just knew the others feared him.
“SHOWTIME!”
The machine finally touched Mike’s face, and even though he’d felt this exact pain before, he still couldn’t stop his scream. The blades tore through the skin of his nose, then his lips, and soon the rest of his face. He felt the tearing, the sickening grind of steel against bone, his cheekbones splintering. His eyes exploded—not from the blades, but from the pressure. Pieces of his mouth, his eyebrows—wet, torn scraps—fell to the floor like discarded meat. And then—
“Mike! Wake up, I’m going to be late to school thanks to you!”
With a jolt, vision swimming, Mike woke up—dizzy, breath shallow, the scream still caught in his throat.
“What time is it…?” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes as he looked at his battered old alarm clock. (Not that it was his fault some angry ghost kid insisted on haunting his dreams once a week.) He stared in horror.
7:45 AM.
“Shit—!” Mike leapt out of bed, running toward his new wardrobe. He grabbed clothes quickly: a black shirt, brown corduroy pants, his newly bought purple sweater, and old sneakers. (“Eh, at least my socks don’t have holes now,” he’d joked to Abby once.)
“ABBY, I’M COMING DOWN!” he shouted, skipping brushing his teeth or washing his face—ever since the nightmares started, mirrors freaked him out.
“Mike! It’s 7:50, come on!” Abby’s voice rang from downstairs. After that incident, she’d started liking school more—something that made Mike both happy and deeply uneasy.
“Wait a sec, Abby. You’ve gotta eat something,” Mike said, slipping into what Jane used to call “mom mode.” She’d always told him he got that soft spot for kids from his mother. He missed when his aunt was like that.
“I saw you wouldn’t wake up, so I ate the ravioli leftovers from yesterday!” Abby called back. (And also all the leftover Halloween candy, though that part she kept to herself.)
“Okay, okay. But at least put on a hoodie or something—it’s frickin’ freezing outside.” Mike hated the cold, same as his dad used to.
“Ugh! You always make me waste time!” she shouted, stomping her way to her room.
“H-Hey, don’t get all angsty with me, missy—the day just started!” Mike called after her, fully knowing she wouldn’t listen.
8:15 AM
The drive to school was… tense, to put it mildly. Mike had to actively restrain himself from snapping at Abby every few minutes. He understood, though—he’d been a teen once, and not exactly an easy one. “A mardy little mister,” his aunt would’ve said.
As they pulled into the school’s lot, Abby reached for the door handle with a speed that surprised him. What was she so eager for? Why had things between them gotten so strained lately, after all the progress they’d made in the past five years?
Mike knew why. He just didn’t like admitting it. In his opinion, it was the right call. She shouldn’t see them again—for everyone’s safety.
“Abby—” he started, but she bolted out the door, slamming it behind her like she was escaping prison.
Fuck me, Mike thought, running a hand over his face in frustration. What did I do to deserve this life?
He sat there for a few minutes, just… processing. Reflecting. Once five or so minutes had passed, he sighed, started the car again, and headed home. There was work to be done anyway.
The ride back was quiet—at least in his mind. The radio played loudly, filling the absence of Abby’s usual morning chaos. Strangely, he kind of missed it.
8:25 AM
Mike parked in front of the house, glancing at the new porch. He still hadn’t put away the ladder from painting the week before. As he unlocked the door—nearly snapping the key in the janky lock—he reminded himself: Yeah, that needs fixing.
Once inside, he just… stood there. Thinking. The Melody-Mall gig was paused for now—gas leaks or something. The manager had nearly laughed when Mike was nervously presented to the “Mediocre Melodies” mascots. Mike had nearly passed out in horror.
Eventually, he decided to do something productive and started gathering dirty laundry, beginning with his own room.
He stopped with the basket in hand. So much has changed, he thought. The Alaska poster on the ceiling? Gone. The broken-down wardrobe had been replaced. And now a desk—with a laptop he’d bought with the first check from his new job.
Shaking off the nostalgia, he scooped up some socks, shorts, and a long-sleeved shirt. Then headed to Abby’s room.
It wasn’t so different from five years ago—still white, still chaotic with drawings everywhere. Now there were posters of things Abby liked, too. Her tiny bed had been replaced with a full-size one (one of her many “whims,” as he liked to call them).
The shelter was gone. The desk was still there, though now it held a charging laptop, still on. Damn kid, Mike thought. She doesn’t wake up early, she just doesn’t sleep.
Should he intervene? The “responsible brother” in him screamed YES, but the part of him desperate for her trust said No, please, don’t push her.
He decided to leave the laptop alone—but curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked at the tabs:
- A group chat with friends
- YouTube videos about “The Walking Circus” and carnival history
- Some kind of game engine? Looked like an office with two doors
- And last: a Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza conspiracy site
Mike stared at that last one in disgust and closed the tab immediately.
Sighing, he resumed picking up clothes—there were plenty. He stared regretfully at the Foxy hoodie on the floor. I shouldn’t have accepted all those gifts from Vanessa, he thought.
He looked around at the animal-themed posters: yellow bears with purple hats, weird crocodiles playing banjos… He’d had enough. Laundry time.
9:35 AM
Mike sat on the couch, sipping coffee and flipping through channels until he landed on Tom & Jerry—the “Mice Follies” episode.
It made him smile. Childhood comfort. But before the nostalgia could fully settle, his phone buzzed.
“Who’d be calling at this hour?” he mumbled. He didn’t have many contacts. He checked the screen and sighed. “Vanessa.”
He answered casually. “Hey, Nessa. How are you?”
…
Nothing.
“Van—?”
A shaky voice cut in. “M-Mike, we need to talk. When are you free?”
Mike paused. That wasn’t her usual tone—not the cheerful, fake confidence he was used to.
“Vanessa? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
He grabbed his keys, already preparing to bolt if needed.
“I’m okay. For now. Something important happened… with them. I need to talk to you.”
Them? His stomach turned.
“Okay. I’m free until 12:45. Come anytime before then. I think it’s better if Abby’s not here.”
He wasn’t putting her in danger. Not again.
“Okay. Thank you. I’ll come in the next hour or so.”
Click. She hung up before he could say anything else.
Mike dropped the keys on the table and collapsed onto the couch, gripping his head. It was never good when it involved them. But maybe—just maybe—it would finally explain the nightmares.
After a minute, he forced himself up and went to the kitchen. He turned on the coffee maker and gathered what Vanessa liked: chocolate, milk, sugar. Almost as sweet as her.
He sat at the table and waited.
It was going to be a long day.