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Michael Afton tried three times to tie the crumpled tie around his neck before giving up, cursing his father under his breath for not letting him wear a clip-on. Cursing his father for a good many things, and himself for a good many more. Michael attacked his unruly dark brown hair with his comb. He wished his mirror was still there, instead of the hole he’d punched in the wall in a fit of rage the day after It happened. He still hated looking at himself, so much so that he put a towel over the mirror above the bathroom sink when he brushed his teeth in the morning. He would’ve taken that one down, too, but he shared the bathroom with Elizabeth, and she loved watching herself dance and sing, using her hairbrush for a microphone. Of course, she hadn't sang since It happened, but Michael hoped she would start again someday.
There. That ought to be good enough. But nothing he did was ever good enough for the great William Afton, Michael thought ruefully.
“Mike!”
Speak of the devil. Michael ignored him.
“Mike!” William called again, louder. “We’re leaving!”
Michael grabbed a lighter off his bedside table and shoved it in the pocket of his black dress pants. “Coming!” he yelled up the stairs. As he walked past, he snagged the suit jacket he’d left on the bedpost and shrugged it on.
William acknowledged his son with a disappointed sigh. “Abigail.”
On cue, Abigail Afton descended on her son, smoothing down his hair, straightening his jacket, and deftly knotting his tie into a flawless four-in-hand. “There,” she said softly, and kissed his cheek.
“Thanks, Mum,” Michael whispered. He felt like crying again. His mother’s show of affection only reminded him that he didn’t deserve it. His mouth twitched.
“Right then.” William turned on his heel, and his family followed him to the garage. Michael wasn’t surprised to see that they would be taking the SUV. He didn’t think his father would ever let him in his prized purple Mustang again. Not since he’d gotten blood on the seats. Michael shuddered at the memory. He didn’t want to go near the Mustang anyway. But then, he’d said the same thing about that godforsaken restaurant, hadn’t he? He tugged nervously at his sleeve, praying no one would see the scars.
The funeral was pure torture. People got up and told stories about Davey; about how he was a good kid, a good friend to their kids. They talked about the tragedy of the accident. Some only mentioned the Bite; others linked it to the missing kids from a few months ago. One woman- Michael recognized her as Jeremy’s mom -called Davey’s death “the latest in a string of horrific tragedy.” Mrs. Fitzgerald was the only parent of the missing kids to speak, but they were all there. Michael saw their children in their faces: Gabriel, Fritz, Suzie, Jeremy. His throat closed up. Davey had been the last one. Now the whole little gang was dead.
Michael looked to his left, past his mother, where Hen sat with his little girl on the other side of William. No, he thought, Davey wasn’t the last one. Charlie was. Michael fought back a wave of nausea. Charlie had been Davey’s best friend. Michael and his friends had teased the two of them about being boyfriend and girlfriend, sometimes to the point of making Davey tear up with anger. And Michael had always laughed at him. Egged his friends on. Now he would do anything to go back to then, to tell them to stop, to never start himself.
Worse than any of that, though, was the display at the front of the chapel. A picture of Davey was set up on a little table, a candle and a vase full of white flowers next to it. Davey was smiling in the picture, a sight that had been all too rare the last year- Michael had made sure of that. He felt suddenly grateful that the ceremony was closed-casket. He didn’t think he could bear the sight of his little brother’s broken body, the result of his own thoughtless actions.
Michael forced himself to sit still and endure it all. Whenever he felt tears coming up, he dug his nails into his palms, so hard that he drew blood.
As they moved outside to the gravesite, Elizabeth slipped her little hand into his and he gave it a light squeeze. She squeezed back and Michael felt a rush of love for her. I’m so sorry, Lizzie, he thought. This is all my fault. He looked down at the little girl, her strawberry blonde hair in perfect double-braids, her cheeks stained with tears. I won’t let myself hurt you, he silently promised her. The realization that, of course, he already had hit him like a punch to the stomach. Not to mention how much what he was planning tonight would hurt her. But after that, never again.
By some miracle, Michael managed to hold himself together while the minister read the eulogy. Granted, he could barely hear what was being said- it sounded like it was being spoken through several feet of muddy water. But when it was time for the coffin to be lowered into the grave, Michael broke.
He hit the ground on his hands and knees, his whole body shaking. Davey was dead, dead and gone, there was no coming back. It should be Michael lying stiff in that wooden box, Michael under the ground. But no, it was Davey, sweet, innocent Davey, who had never done anything to him besides wanting the attention of his big brother. Little Davey who, because of that same big brother, would never see his seventh birthday. Michael sobbed, hard. Because as much as he wished he could blame fate, he couldn’t. It was Michael’s fault Davey was dead, all his fault. “I’m sorry, Davey,” he breathed over and over, like a prayer. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I-”
A hand grasped his shirt collar and pulled him sharply up. “For god’s sake Mike, pull yourself together,” came William’s cold whisper.
Michael wanted to scream, to wrestle out of his grip, to hit him, to do something. But instead, like the coward he was, he allowed himself to be dragged back to the place where the rest of the family was standing, his father’s arm heavy across his shoulders.
Michael tore off the funeral clothes the second his feet hit the floor of his bedroom, replacing them with jeans and his favorite worn hooded sweatshirt. To his relief, he felt a cigarette in the pocket. He dug the lighter out of the pants he’d been wearing earlier and closed and locked his door before he lit up. With the first drag, he felt the weight lift just a little.
He was dimly aware of the sound of William’s Mustang pulling out of the drive, and he wondered idly whether he was headed off to cheat on Michael’s mother or get drunk. Or maybe both. Probably both. Alcohol and adultery: William’s favorite activities since the missing kids cases had caused his business to rocket downhill. Because that was what William cared about- his business, his money, his reputation. Not the missing- dead -kids, or their families. Not his own dead kid. Everything was always about the bottom line. No wonder he hated his oldest child.
Michael had been a stain on the perfect Afton name even before he’d gotten his brother killed. He was the stereotypical rebellious teen: out late smoking and drinking with his friends, listening to heavy metal at max volume, wearing baggy jeans and t-shirts with offensive language. Anything he knew would annoy William, to make it clear that he wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps, that he wasn’t going to join the family business, wouldn’t one day take over that shithole kiddie restaurant.
Not that he could anyway- the place had been shut down after the Bite. Michael was going to have to break in.
In the end, he decided not to leave a note. He had planned to, had dug a scrap of paper out of his desk, even, but he couldn’t get any farther than “Dear Mum and Lizzie.” He hoped they would understand. That they would forgive him.
He looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes to midnight. It was raining, which wasn’t ideal, but it would be fine.
He threw on the backpack he’d packed a week ago, then took the baseball bat from the corner and shoved it through the window, shattering the glass. He winced at the loud sound it made. He waited, but there was no sound from the rest of the house; no one yelling down the hall to ask what that was.
He took a breath and climbed out, dragging the bat along with him. The glass cut his sweatshirt in a few places and his skin in a few more, joining the razor blade scars that were already there.
He stuck to the shadows as he walked, keeping his eyes on the ground to avoid attracting any unwanted attention. Though he doubted anyone would approach a tall, muscular teenage boy with his hood up carrying a metal bat.
The rain had grown heavier; the light shower turning into a full-on thunderstorm, so thick and dark that Michael could barely see two feet in front of him. Still, he carried on. He knew the way by heart.
And, sure enough, before long he was standing in front of the glass doors of a familiar brick building, looking up at the sign that, even if the place was still up and running, would have gone dark hours ago. Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. Michael lifted the bat and smashed the lock threaded through the door handles. He slowly pushed the doors open, and the wave of nostalgia that hit him then was almost enough to kill him without trying. This was the place where he had spent so many of his nights and weekends. He remembered running around Freddy’s as a kid, back when he was Mikey. Back when he still idolized his father, before he knew how awful he was. Then David was born. Michael was eight, and he loved his baby brother more than anything. It was him who’d first given David his nickname, Davey- the first of many, and the only one that wasn’t an insult. How quickly things had changed.
Michael dropped his backpack on the floor and dug around inside until he found the flashlight. He swung it around the room, and he could almost see the little kids swarming around: There was Gabe eating pizza, Suzie playing arcade games, Jeremy dancing in front of the stage where Freddy’s band performed, Fritz on his way to Pirate’s Cove, Charlie and Davey climbing up and around the playplace on the opposite wall. Davey’s “gang,” as Michael called them. Now they were all gone. All except Charlie. Michael felt awful for her. He didn’t know what Hen had told her, or even how much of all this a seven-year-old could understand, but that poor girl had experienced more loss in her first few years than most people did their whole lives.
Michael’s light landed on the animatronics. Bonnie, Chica, Freddy. Foxy, Michael’s favorite, was in the back, in Pirate’s Cove, and the yellow Fredbear had been taken to Parts and Storage after the Bite and replaced with brown-suited Freddy, in an attempt to distance from the accident. But it had been a futile effort. Everyone remembered.
Remembered the birthday party where the guest of honor had hid under the table, trying to cry quietly so his bullies wouldn’t find him. But, of course, found him they had. Michael had been wearing his Foxy mask. It filled him with shame now, to remember it- that Foxy had been his favorite for the sole reason that Davey found him a little scary. He’d always stayed away from Pirate’s Cove, even before he’d developed that sudden, crippling fear of the animatronics, the reason for which no one could seem to figure out. Whatever the reason, it was enough to make a five-year-old dread his own birthday. He’d been crying the whole week leading up to the party, and Michael hadn’t been helping matters, jumpscaring poor Davey with the Foxy mask every chance he got.
Despite what people thought, Michael and his friends hadn’t planned it. It happened all at once. They’d pulled Davey out from under the table and carried him, screaming and crying, up to the stage. Michael could almost hear his own voice echoing across the restaurant: “Hey, guys, I think the little man said he wants to give Freadbear a big kiss! On three! One…two…THREE!” And together, they’d lifted Davey up into Fredbear’s mouth. While his friends laughed, Michael had stood there with a satisfied grin on his face, watching Davey kick and struggle, begging Michael to get him out. Then, It happened.
The Bite.
Freadbear’s jaws snapped shut, crushing Davey’s head. Blood hit Michael’s face. He stood there in shock, unable to move, feeling his whole world crumble around him.
William had been on the scene in an instant. The guests in the pizzeria watched in horror as William pried open the mouth of the bear to retrieve his son, yelling for Michael to start the car. They’d ridden to the ER with Davey’s head in Michael’s lap. Then, Michael had been the one crying, begging Davey to breathe, to stay alive. All the apologies, all the vows to be a better person if only the universe would save his brother, all the promises to make it up to him when he got better, all the marks Michael had carved into his skin- none of it had been enough.
Davey had survived a little over half a week comatose in his hospital bed, before finally passing away on the fifth night.
Now, Michael was here to make amends the only way he knew how. He took the knife out of his bag. “I’m sorry, Davey,” he whispered, then slashed his arm above the inside of his elbow.
Michael collapsed, his shaking legs unable to hold him up. The knife clattered to the floor. Through a blur of tears, he watched himself bleed out onto the tile floor. As the end came nearer, he found himself hallucinating. He thought he saw the Fredbear animatronic coming toward him, its jaw broken. It reached out a hand. Michael tried to move his arm, but couldn’t. He closed his eyes. Goodbye, Lizzie, he thought, then blacked out.
Sunlight streamed through the windows of the pizzeria, illuminating the figure of a boy sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. Michael blinked, awareness slowly coming back to him. I’m alive, he thought. Then, holy shit I’m alive! as he remembered the previous night and what he’d tried to do. He stood up, but his knees buckled and he had to grab onto a nearby table for support. Seeing his own blood on the floor- and how much of it there was -made his stomach churn. And then he saw the bloody footprints leading toward the back room. He turned his head and vomited under the table.
Shaking, he crawled hesitantly to the footprints. They weren’t human. For one thing, they were far bigger than any normal human feet, and for another, they were a different shape entirely. If Michael hadn’t known any better, he’d say they looked like footprints from one of the animatronics.
And then he remembered. Fredbear coming toward him. Reaching his hand out.
Michael shook his head. That was impossible. The animatronics couldn’t move on their own. They weren’t… “They’re not real,” he said out loud. But there was a nagging little whisper at the back of his mind, saying what if they were? What if it hadn’t been a hallucination? What if Davey had been afraid of them for a good reason? What if they were… alive?
Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw a strange smear beside the puddle. No, not a smear, he realized. Scratches. He turned his head. The scratches looked like letters. Words. A message. Scrawled in blood on the floor were five letters:
IT’S ME
Michael dry-heaved, nothing left in his stomach to throw up. It’s me. What could that mean? Who? He swallowed hard. Surely not…Fredbear? Michael could think of no other explanation. There was no one else here who could’ve written the message. But then, what was Fredbear trying to tell him? Who was he? Unless…
“David?” Michael whispered.
There was no response, but somehow Michael knew. Fredbear had moved. Had written the message. And somehow, some way, his brother was behind it. Somewhere, some part of him was still around. A ghost? His soul?
Michael shuddered. It was all so creepy and weird, but he knew without a doubt that it was real. David had just saved his life. And he was going to spend the rest of it trying to find out what had happened.
Feeling a sudden resolve, he stood up. “I’m going to find you,” Michael promised. “I’ll find out what happened to you. Then I’ll come back. I’ll put you back together.”