Chapter Text
This was starting to get a bit ridiculous, in your humble, non-expert opinion.
If you had been told ten years ago that you’d be having a panic attack in the bathroom of a sketchy, rundown gas station, you would have laughed. (Or perhaps you would actually be disturbed and concerned, but that’s besides the point.)
Now, however, you were sitting on the closed lid of a grimy toilet, staring at the equally grimy tiles, contemplating the last two months of horrible, stupid decisions.
Sure, you weren’t aware they were bad decisions while you were making them, but that did very little to comfort you now. In fact, it may have made you feel worse.
It was impressive, really, how quickly things had gone from manageable to catastrophic.
Two months ago, your biggest concern had been being laid off, which was really just a nice way to say fired, from your longtime job as an accountant. One month ago, it was whether crashing at your aunt’s place for ‘just a few nights’ was pushing your welcome. Two weeks ago, it was the nagging feeling that maybe—maybe—you should have stayed in Nevada. Presently, it was the wretched vintage Fredbear plush that you had bought on a whim while rummaging through the toy bins at the thrift store.
You used to frequent one of the Freddy’s locations with your friends, and you’d purchased a whole bunch of old merchandise you’d, in some sick sense of nostalgia, thought was neat.
Stupid nostalgia.
And now here you were, knees drawn up, arms folded tight across your stomach like that might keep everything from spilling out of you, emotionally or otherwise.
God, even the buzzing of the overhead lights was making you want to crawl out of your own skin.
“A-are you okay?”
Ah, and there it was—the source of your most recent crisis.
The voice was small. Thin. Hesitant and shaky in a way that curled unpleasantly around your spine and made your hair stand on end. It pressed gently into the folds of your brain, worming its way in despite your best efforts, taking root where you’d hoped there was no room left for anything else.
You elected to ignore it, as you’ve been trying so hard to do for the past week and a half. Because avoiding your problems always makes them go away! Right?
“You seem... You seem sad.” The voice mused, voice slow and stuttering, as though struggling to find the correct words.
Sad, huh? That was one word for it, you supposed. Another would be overwhelmed or maybe exhausted.
The feeling sat heavy in your chest, too big to unpack in a bathroom stall and too persistent to pretend it didn’t exist. No matter how much you wished it, hiding and curling up in a ball wouldn’t make your problems disappear. You’d have to face the world eventually, and there’s ‘no better time than the present’, as your father used to say.
You sighed, the sound loud in your ears, and rose to unlock the stall door. The metal latch clicked far too noisily in the quiet restroom. Your eyes stayed fixed on the chipped, yellowed tiles, tracing the cracks to distract yourself.
You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling a slow, shaky breath, forcing air into lungs that didn’t seem to want it, and finally lifted your head.
The bathroom was exactly as empty and disgusting as it had been twenty minutes ago when you locked yourself in here to have your panic attack—flickering overhead lights, a cracked mirror, and several stains you had no interest in identifying.
What was decidedly different, though, was the little boy sitting on the counter beside the sink, short legs dangling. He’d been stubbornly following you since you purchased the stuffed bear he now clutched tightly in his hands.
The Fredbear plush was older than you’d thought when you bought it—if its barely legible tag was anything to go by—its fabric worn thin and discolored, seams slightly uneven like they’d been repaired by hand. One of its eyes was missing, and its tiny purple bowtie was hanging on by a literal thread. It smelled faintly of dust and something metallic you didn’t want to think about.
Your aunt had cringed when you’d picked it up, had wrinkled her nose, but you were drawn to it in a way you couldn’t, or refused to, understand in the moment. It wasn’t until you’d already brought the stupid thing home that you understood. It had been calling to something in you that had always been listening, no matter how much you wished it didn’t.
You’d grown up seeing ghosts the way other kids saw imaginary friends. The woman who lingered by the highway mile marker. The little girl who sat in your childhood closet and cried into her hands, begging someone to help her.
You’d learned early not to ask questions you didn’t want answered.
That rule had served you well for years. It had kept you functional. Employed. Only mildly traumatized. It was the reason you’d learned to look away when a bloodied figure lingered too long in reflections, or why you tried so desperately to convince yourself that everything that you saw was a cruel figment of your imagination.
That rule was currently doing absolutely nothing for you.
The little boy stared at you curiously, his big green eyes gleaming in the fluorescents, as though perpetually on the verge of bursting into tears. He looked around seven, maybe eight. His forehead was wrapped in bandages that had crusted and faded to a muddy brown. His curly hair stuck up at odd angles, matted with something that you refused to name lest you empty your stomach onto the already disgusting bathroom floor.
You quickly averted your gaze, swallowing the dizzying nausea that always came with these encounters. You felt guilty for ignoring him, but engaging with the dead has never ended well. You seem crazy at best, and it invites them to bother you more persistently at worst.
…He looked so terribly sad, though. Maybe a short conversation wouldn’t hurt. He was just a kid, after all.
No. Nope. Absolutely not. That was a dangerous road to go down, and you had learned—painfully—what happened when you let sympathy overrule self‑preservation.
You turned toward the sink instead, bracing both hands against the chipped porcelain. The mirror stared back at you, unflinching. You looked pale. A little green around the edges. There was a faint tremor in your fingers that you pretended not to notice.
You pressed your lips together, turning the sink faucet with more force than necessary. Water coughed out of the spout before settling into a clear, steady stream. You splashed some onto your face, hoping the cold would shock your nerves into behaving, hoping that when you looked up again, he’d be gone.
He wasn’t.
The boy’s reflection hovered in the cracked mirror beside your own, slightly warped by the fracture running down the glass. When you glanced over at him briefly, he hugged the Fredbear plush closer to his chest, fingers sinking into the worn, patchy fabric, and your heart ached for the poor boy.
“Oh,” he breathed softly, eyes lighting up in a way that made your stomach drop. “You… You can see me.”
Your shoulders tensed. That was… not ideal.
You’d told yourself for a week that if you ignored him hard enough, he’d go away. That was usually how it went. Ghosts lingered until they realized they weren’t going to get what they wanted, and then they drifted back into the static of the world. Sometimes it took minutes. Sometimes days. But eventually, they’d leave you alone.
Though evidently, this little boy was determined to defy all the norms.
You scoffed. As if any of this was even remotely normal.
No ghost had ever been as persistent or as aware as him, that you could remember. It was starting to get to you, and you felt as though you might finally lose your mind. He followed you around nearly everywhere you went, talking to you, asking you things that you wouldn’t—couldn’t—acknowledge. That’s what led you here: having a mental breakdown in a public restroom, your dignity lying in pieces at your feet.
You darted your eyes back to your own reflection as you dried your hands and face with a thin paper towel, refusing to look directly at him.
This was bad. He knew you could see him now, and you were positive he’d just keep pestering you until you eventually cracked and spoke to him. Maybe, if you played your cards right, you could convince him that you couldn’t hear him, instead.
You crumpled the damp paper towel in your hand and tossed it toward the overflowing trash can by the door. It bounced once off the rim before settling somewhere among the heap of discarded receipts and cigarette cartons within.
The boy made a soft, almost imperceptible noise—half sigh, half sniffle—that made your stomach twist tighter.
God, were you a horrible person?
No, you decided quickly, you were not a horrible person for simply wanting to keep your sanity somewhat intact. Dead little boys with big, sad eyes and scraped knees be damned.
That’s what you kept telling yourself as you retrieved your bag from the hook on the stall door, pretending you couldn’t hear the pitiful little sniffles the boy was making.
You could feel him watching you as you slung the strap of your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, jaw clenched, eyes fixed stubbornly ahead. If you could just get out of here—back into the bustle of the gas station, the smell of stale coffee and gasoline—maybe the weight in your chest would ease.
You knew he would follow you, as he had been for nearly two weeks now, but at least you could drown him out in the noise. Pretend he was just a normal kid.
A normal kid with bloody bandages wrapped around his head.
The bathroom door creaked loudly as you shoved it open, the sound grating enough that it made you wince. The harsh fluorescence gave way to the warmer—if only marginally—lighting of the gas station proper, the air thick with the scent of burnt coffee, old fryer grease, and cheap candy. An old rock song played on a tinny radio behind the register. The menagerie of sensory overload was slightly nauseating, but at least it was familiar.
The bell above the door chimed as someone entered, their footsteps heavy against the tile. A man in grease-stained coveralls and a hoodie shuffled past you, head dipped, completely oblivious to the small, bloodied boy padding after you, his untied sneakers making no sound at all.
“What’s your name?” The boy persisted, shuffling along behind you.
You huffed a sigh through your nose, heading straight for the coffee station, desperate for something to quell your bone-deep exhaustion. You grabbed an empty cup, winced at the price sticker, and filled it anyway. The coffee was tar-black and smelled vaguely of regret. Perfect.
“Did I m-make you mad?” the boy asked from somewhere to your left, voice quiet and nervous.
“I’m not mad,” you muttered under your breath before you could stop yourself.
Oh.
Oh no.
Silence followed—one heartbeat, two—before the boy sucked in a sharp, startled breath.
“You can— you can hear me too,” he said, wonder and relief tangling in his voice.
You closed your eyes.
Idiot.
You groaned, fingers tightening around the flimsy cup until it creaked. You focused instead on snapping the lid into place, even when it took three tries and nearly spilled scalding liquid onto your hands.
Well, you’ve thoroughly screwed yourself. He would never leave you alone now.
You turned away from the counter and started toward the register, resolutely ignoring the way the boy followed at your heels, his excitement tangible. The Fredbear plush dangled from his fingers by one paw, swaying as he moved. How he has it when you know you stuffed it into your bag after finding it mysteriously placed in the backseat of your car this morning, you didn’t know.
Ghost logic, you suppose.
You paid for the coffee, and the gas you’d pumped earlier, on autopilot, slid a few crumpled bills across the counter, and accepted your change without really registering the cashier’s bored “Have a good one.” Your brain was too busy screaming at you for opening your mouth. For acknowledging him. That was step one in a long list of things you were never supposed to do.
You shoved the change into your pocket and pushed through the front door, the bell chiming cheerfully behind you in a way that felt deeply inappropriate and frustratingly mocking.
Cold night air slapped you across the face the moment you stepped outside, sharp and damp and smelling faintly of rain-soaked asphalt.
The little boy clumsily hurried after you as you all but ran through the parking lot, his short legs struggling to keep up, tripping every few paces. You’d feel bad if you weren’t currently spiralling.
Your car sat a few spaces down, a dented sedan that had seen better decades. The parking lot lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a jaundiced, sickly glow.
You fumbled with your keys, nearly dropping them twice before managing to unlock the driver’s door. The little boy hovered nearby, rocking on his heels, eyes darting between you and the ground as if he were afraid you might disappear if he looked away for too long.
You slid into the driver’s seat, tossing your bag into the passenger side, and shut the door a little harder than necessary, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet lot. For a brief, blessed second, you allowed yourself to foolishly believe that the metal frame of the car might act like some kind of barrier. Salt circle. Warding charm. Anything.
You set your coffee in the cup holder with shaking hands and pressed your forehead against the steering wheel.
Okay. Breathe. You’d handled worse than this. Probably. Maybe.
The air inside the car was thin and stale, frigid from the early November air, and it stung when you breathed in. Despite this, you inhaled slowly through your nose, exhaled through your mouth, counting like your therapist had taught you back when you still pretended you were normal enough for therapy to work.
“Inhale for four…hold for four…”
“Can we listen to music, please?”
You yelped, jerking upright so fast you nearly headbutted the steering wheel. Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs as you twisted around, already knowing—already dreading—what you’d see.
Sitting in your backseat was your little tagalong, a tiny, shy smile on his lips.
A huff escaped through your nose, and you narrowed your eyes at the boy.
You were thoroughly done with this nonsense.
This was your life, and if he wasn’t going to leave you be, you’d just have to get rid of him yourself.
“Sure. But can I see that first?” You requested, pointing to his stuffed bear, an anxious feeling curling deep in your gut. One you always got when you were about to do something impulsive and terribly stupid.
“Uhm…” He hesitated, eyes going wide as he clutched the plush to his chest before reluctantly handing it to you with a trembling hand. “O-okay, but… be careful with him, please.”
You spun back around, unrolling your window with the hand crank and tossing Fredbear into the parking lot, watching him bounce across the pavement a few times before landing in a puddle.
For a heartbeat—just one—you felt an awful, vicious sort of relief.
There. Done. Problem solved.
You rolled the window back up and turned the key in the ignition with a sharp, decisive twist. The engine sputtered, coughed, and then settled into a rattling idle. The radio crackled to life, spitting static before landing on a low, droning talk show.
You adjusted your rearview mirror, sighing softly when you saw that the boy was gone.
“See?” you muttered to no one. “Problem-solving.”
You laughed under your breath, a shaky, humorless sound that sounded more like a sob than anything else, before shifting the car into reverse and glancing over your shoulder. The parking lot was empty save for a couple of semi-trucks idling near the pumps. No bloodied child. No plush bear.
…Okay, maybe you are a horrible person. But you don’t think you could’ve handled ferrying around a dead little boy for any longer.
You pulled out of the parking space and eased toward the exit, tires crunching softly over gravel. The gas station shrank in your rearview mirror, its flickering lights blurring as your eyes stung unexpectedly. Relief and guilt sat heavy and hollow in your chest, like the aftertaste of something bitter.
As you rolled onto the road, your headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the faded yellow lines and the dark strip of asphalt ahead.
You exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as the adrenaline drained from your system.
Okay. That was it. You’d toss the rest of the thrift-store junk first thing tomorrow, just in case they also had freaky dead children attached to them, too, and—if you were feeling particularly responsible—look up therapists in the area who took your insurance. Your aunt would be happy about that. She’d been nagging you since you moved back to Utah, worried that you were regressing. If only she knew.
“…—and authorities are still…—...with information regarding the incident to come forw—”
The radio crackled in and out, fizzling with white noise that made it hard to hear what was being said. You reached out to adjust the volume, frowning as the sound wavered. Static hissed, then surged louder, drowning out the host’s voice entirely. The dashboard lights flickered once, twice.
Your stomach sank to your feet.
“No,” you sobbed. “Don’t do this.”
The engine stuttered. The headlights dimmed, then flared too bright, washing the road ahead in harsh white. You gripped the steering wheel as the car shuddered beneath you, heart climbing back into your throat.
Then—silence.
The engine died with a hollow click, the radio cutting off and drowning you in silence. The sudden quiet was deafening. Your car coasted for a few more seconds before rolling to an unceremonious stop on the shoulder, hazards blinking weakly.
You slumped back in your seat, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the flashing lights.
Of course.
Of course, this would happen. Why wouldn’t it? You just couldn’t catch a break, could you?
You let out a shaky laugh that bordered dangerously on hysteria and pressed the heel of your hand to your eyes. Tears burned, threatening, but you refused to let them fall. Crying would just make this worse. You’d always hated crying, hated the thick, choked feeling that you’d get in the back of your throat.
After a moment, you leaned forward and popped the hood release before dragging yourself out into the cold night.
You lifted the hood and stared blankly at the engine. You didn’t know the first thing about cars beyond “gas goes in here” and “this light means trouble.” The engine stared back, equally unhelpful.
“Okay,” you muttered. “Okay, this is fine. I’ll just call a tow truck.”
You fumbled for your phone in your pocket, only to groan when the screen lit up to reveal a pitiful sliver of red battery and four empty bars. No signal. Fantastic. Would your luck ever run out?
You glanced from side to side, at the mesas in the distance, then back at the empty road stretching into the dark. People rarely travelled this road at this time of night, so you severely doubted that you’d get lucky enough for someone to pass by, let alone someone willing or capable to help.
You could walk the seven miles back to the gas station, but…
Yeah, no, walking in the dark, all alone, especially to where you’d dumped poor Fredbear? Does not sound appealing.
So, you’d likely have to crash in your car for the night. Sounds fun!
“Why did you do that?”