Five Nights at Freddy's: The Silver Eyes(23)

“Hey, Charlotte,” John said, stressing her name in the mocking tone he always used.

“Don’t call me that,” Charlie said automatically.

“You ever see grown-ups kiss?” He picked up a stick and started digging at the tree bark, like he was more interested in that, than in her answer. Charlie shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Wanna try it?” He still wasn’t looking at her; his face was streaked with dirt, like it often was, and his hair was sticking out in all directions, a twig caught in it above his forehead.

“Gross,” Charlie said, wrinkling her nose. Then, after a moment. “Yeah, okay.”

John dropped the stick and leaned toward her, his hands behind his back. Charlie closed her eyes, waiting, still not entirely sure what she was supposed to do.

“Charlotte!” It was her father. Charlie jumped back. John’s face was so close to hers that she banged into him with her forehead.

“Ow!” He yelled, clapping a hand to his nose.

Charlie’s father came around the side of the tree.

“What are you up to? John?” He pried John’s fingers away from his nose. “You’re not bleeding, you’ll be fine,” he said. “Charlotte, closer to the house please.” He then pointed his finger, directing them forward.

“John, it looks like your mom is here anyway.” He walked ahead of them, toward the driveway where her car had just pulled in.

“Yeah, okay.” John trotted off toward the driveway, turning once to wave at Charlie. He was grinning like something wonderful had happened, although Charlie was not quite sure what it was.



“Oh my,” Charlie said now, and covered her face, sure it was bright red. When she looked up again, John was grinning, that same satisfied, six-year-old grin.

“You know, my nose still hurts when it rains,” he said, touching a finger to it.

“It does not,” Charlie said. She leaned back against the tree. “I can’t believe you tried to kiss me. We were six!” Charlie stared at him accusingly.

“Even the littlest heart wants what it wants.” John said in a mock romantic voice, but there was an edge of something real in it, something not well enough hidden. Charlie realized, suddenly, that he was standing very close to her.

“Let’s go see your dad’s workshop,” John said abruptly, too loudly, and Charlie nodded.

“Okay.” She regretted it as she said it. She did not want to open the workshop door. She closed her eyes, still leaning against the tree. She could still see it; it was all she could see, when she thought of that place. The twitching, malformed, metal skeleton in its dark corner, with its wrenching shudders, and its blistering silver eyes. The image welled up in her head until it was all there was. The memory radiated a cutting anguish, but she did not know who it belonged to: to the thing, to her father, or to herself. Charlie felt a hand on her shoulder, and opened her eyes. It was John, frowning at her like he was worried.

“Charlie, are you okay?”

No.

“Yes,” she said. “Come on, let’s go see what’s in the workshop.”

It was not locked, and there was no real reason it should be, Charlie thought. Her eyes went first to the dark corner. The figure was not there. There was a weathered apron hanging in its place, the one her father had worn for soldering, and his goggles next to it, but there was no sign of that uncanny presence. Charlie should have felt relief, but she didn’t; only a vague unease. She looked around. There seemed to be almost nothing left of the workshop: the benches were there, where her father had assembled and tweaked his inventions, but the materials, the blueprints and the half-finished robots that were once crammed onto every surface had disappeared.

Where are they? Had her aunt had them carted away to a junkyard to rust and crumble among other discarded, useless things? Or had her father done it himself, so no one else would have to? The concrete floor was littered, here and there, with scraps: whoever had done the clean-up had not been thorough. Charlie knelt and picked up an oddly-shaped scrap of wood, then a small circuit board. She turned it over. Whose brain were you? She wondered, but it did not matter, really. It was battered and worn, the etched copper too badly scratched to repair, even if someone wanted to.

“Charlie,” John said from across the workshop. He was in the dark corner; if the skeleton had been there, it could have reached out to touch him.

But it’s not there.

“What?”

“Come see what I found.”

Charlie went. John was standing beside her father’s toolbox, and he stepped away as she came over, giving her space. Charlie knelt down before it. It looked as if it had just been polished. It was made of dark, stained wood, glossy with some kind of lacquer. She opened it gently. Charlie picked up an awl from the top tray and held it for a moment, the rounded wooden handle fitting into the palm of her hand as if it had been made for her to use. Not that she knew how. The last time she had picked it up, she could barely fit her fingers around its base. She picked up the tools one after another, lifting them from their places. The toolbox had wooden spaces, carved out to fit the precise shape of each item. All the tools were polished and clean, their wooden handles smooth and their metal unrusted. They looked as though they had been used just that morning, wiped down and put away meticulously. Like someone still cared for them. She looked at them with a fierce, unexpected joy, as if something she had fought for was returned to her. But her joy felt wrong, misplaced: looking at her father’s things set her off-balance. Something in the world was not as it should be. Seized suddenly with an unfounded fear, she thrust the awl back into its place in the box, dropping it like something burning. She closed the lid, but she did not stand.