Five Nights at Freddy's: The Silver Eyes(34)

Charlie was looking down at the ground as she talked, at the dirt and stones and cracked remains of leaves, and her hand was at her back, stripping bark from the tree. Does that hurt the tree? She thought, and forced her hands away, knotting them in front of her.

The restaurant was open until late at night, and so when they began to falter, Charlie and the little boy would crawl into the pantry with blankets and soft toys to sleep until it was time to close. She remembered using sacks of flour as pillows, big bags almost as long as they were tall. They would snuggle down together and whisper words of nonsense that meant deep things only to the two of them, and Charlie would drift into sleep, half listening to the warm sounds of the restaurant, the clank of dishes and the murmur of grown-up talk, and the sound of the bear and the rabbit, as they danced to their chiming tunes.

They loved the animals, the yellowish-brown bear and the matching rabbit, who wandered the restaurant, dancing and singing for the customers, and sometimes just for Charlie and the little boy. They sometimes moved stiffly and mechanically, and sometimes with fluid, human movements, and while the boy liked the animals best when they acted like people, Charlie liked them the other way. Their stilted movements, their lifeless eyes, and their occasional glitches fascinated her: they acted alive, but were not. The narrow, yet bottomless, chasm between those things, alive and not-alive, enthralled her, though she would never have been able to explain why.

“I think they were costumes,” Charlie said now, still looking down at the ground. “The animals weren’t always robots; the bear and the bunny were costumes, and sometimes people wore them, and sometimes my father put it onto one of his robots, and you could always tell which it was, by the way they danced.”

Charlie stopped. There was more, but she could not bring herself to speak. There was something else that made her lock down her mind and force the memory away, the part that made her unwilling to ask Aunt Jen for answers, because she was afraid of what those answers might be. Charlie had not dared to look at John the whole time she was talking, staring only at the ground, at her hands, at her sneakers. Now she did look at him, and he was rapt, seeming almost to be holding his breath. He waited, not wanting to speak until he was sure she was finished.

“That’s all I remember,” she said at last, even though it was a lie.

“Wait, who was the little boy?” John said.

Charlie shook her head, frustrated that he had not understood.

“He was mine,” she said. “I mean, he was my brother. We were the same.” She was speaking childishly, as if the memory had taken hold of her, forcing her to regress. She cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she said, speaking more slowly, trying to choose her words with care. “I think he was my twin brother.”

She saw John open his mouth, about to ask the question: what happened to him? But there must have been something in her face, something warning, because he held it back, and said, instead:

“Do you think that place was around here? I mean, I guess it could have been anywhere. Another state, even.”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said slowly, looking over her shoulders, then up at the trees. “This all feels the same. It feels like I could walk around any corner and it could be there,” Her voice began to break. “I want to find it,” she added suddenly, and as soon as she said it, it was what she wanted to do.

“Well, what do you remember about it?” John said enthusiastically, almost lunging forward like an eager dog on a lead. He must have been dying to go looking from the moment she mentioned the place. Charlie smiled, but shook her head.

“I really don’t remember much,” she said. “I don’t know how much help I can actually be; like I said, the things I remember are just little scraps, they’re not information. It’s like a picture book.” She closed her eyes, trying to see the place in her mind’s eye. “The floor would shake.” She lifted her head as the thought became clear. “A train?” she asked as though John would know. “I remember this thunderous sound every day; it was the biggest sound I’d ever heard. I don’t mean loud, I mean you could feel it in your whole body, like it was rumbling right through your chest.”

“It must have been close to some tracks then, right?” John said.

“Yeah,” Charlie said with a spark of hope. “There was a tree out in front,” she went on. “It looked like an old, angry monster, hunched forward and wizened, with two giant, gnarled branches reaching out like arms. Whenever we left for the night, I hid my face in my father’s shirt, so I wouldn’t have to see it as we walked by.”

“What else?” John said. “Were there stores, or other restaurants?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’m sorry.” She scratched her head. “It’s gone.”

“It’s not enough,” John said, a little frustrated. “It could be anywhere, a train and a tree. There must be something else you can remember. Anything?”

“No,” Charlie said. The more she pushed herself to remember the harder it got: she was grasping blindly, and it was like trying to get hold of living creatures, as if the memories saw her coming, and slipped away.

She tossed out fragments as she managed to catch them: the tablecloths, red and white checked, and made of real cloth, not plastic. She remembered grabbing at one, unsteady on her feet, and the whole table setting falling down on top of her, plates and glasses shattering around her as she covered her head. “Charlotte, are you okay?” Her father’s voice seemed clearer than ever.