Five Nights at Freddy's: The Silver Eyes(89)

John squeezed her hand and it broke the spell; she looked at him, her vision still cloudy.

“Charlie,” he said haltingly. “… Charlotte—”

“Shh,” she said. “Later.” He nodded, accepting the lie, that there would be a later. Foxy crouched down again, and Charlie let go of John, her heart pounding as she braced for it. Foxy’s joints shifted in their sockets as he prepared to spring—and he stopped. Charlie waited. There were no screams from behind her, no sounds of fighting; even the music box was silent. Foxy was motionless, though his eyes still glowed. She looked around, and then she saw.

It was Freddy. Not the one they all knew, not the one who stood less than a foot away from Marla, his mouth open as if poised to bite. It was the other one, the one she remembered, the yellow Freddy from the diner. The costume her father used to wear. It was looking at them, staring from the corner, and now, she heard something. It was indistinct, just whispers in her head, a gentle susurrus, blowing through her conscious mind without taking hold. She looked at the others, and knew they heard it too; it was indecipherable, yet the meaning was unmistakable.

Carlton was the one to say it:

“Michael?”

The sounds they heard grew warm, an unspoken confirmation, and together, they approached the golden bear. Marla brushed past brown Freddy as if he were not there, and Charlie turned her back to Foxy, unafraid. There was only one thought in her mind: Michael. It’s you.

They were almost to him; all Charlie wanted to do was fling her arms around him, hold him close, and to be again the little girl she was so long ago. To embrace him again, this beloved child, who had been ripped from their lives on that carefree afternoon; to do it all over, and this time to rescue him, this time to save his life. “Michael,” she whispered.

The yellow bear stood motionless. Unlike the others, there seemed to be nothing inside of it; it stood of its own accord, by its own will. There was nothing to hold the costumed jaw closed, and its eyes were empty.

Suddenly aware that their backs were turned to the other animals, Charlie startled and turned, apprehensive. Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy were standing at rest, almost as if they were back on their stages. Their eyes were locked on Charlie, but they had halted their approach.

“It’s the kids.” Carlton whispered.

“Foxy wasn’t attacking Jason.” Marla gasped. “Foxy was trying to protect him.”

John took hesitant steps toward the middle of the dining room, then approached more boldly, looking at each of the robots in turn. “All of them.” Their faces were no longer animalistic, no longer lifeless.

Suddenly, there was a crash from the sealed exit door.

They all startled, turning as one as the wall beside the welded entrance shook with the force of a dozen blows.

Now what? Charlie thought.

The bricks broke and fell, scattering in pieces across the floor, their dust filling the air in rusty clouds. A figure stepped through the hole, wielding a massive sledgehammer, and as the air slowly cleared, they saw who it was: Clay Burke, Carlton’s father.

His eyes set on Carlton, and he dropped the hammer and ran to his son, sweeping him into an embrace. He stroked his hair, gripping him like he would never let go. Charlie watched from her distance, relief touched by a stiletto edge of envy.

“Dad, I’m gonna puke,” Carlton murmured. Clay laughed but leaned back when he saw that he wasn’t kidding. Carlton bent over, hands on his knees, fighting the urge to retch, and Clay’s face took on alarm. Carlton straightened. “I’m good.”

Clay was not listening anymore. He was looking around the room, at the animals. All of them were frozen in time, displaced.

“Okay, kids,” Clay said, his voice low and his words careful. “I think it’s time for us to go. Come on.” He started toward the exit he had made.

They glanced at each other. The whispers were gone; whatever he had been, the yellow Freddy was slouched again, an empty suit, though no one had seen it move. Charlie nodded toward Clay, and the rest started forward, heading almost reluctantly to the hole in the wall. Charlie hung back; John stayed beside her, but she gestured him forward, taking up the rear.

She had barely had time to take a step when something took hold of her throat.

Charlie tried to cry out, but her windpipe was being crushed; she was whipped around as if she weighed nothing, and found herself face to face with the yellow rabbit. Dave’s eyes were shining through, triumphant. He had his arm around her neck, squeezing her throat so tightly that she could scarcely breathe. He was holding her so close it was almost an embrace; she could smell the costume, stained fur and years of putrid sweat, and blood, and cruelty.

He spoke, still staring at Charlie.

“You are staying.”

“Absolutely not,” Clay said, taking on the group’s authority.

Dave dug his fingers deeper into Charlie’s neck and she made a strangled sound.

“I will kill this one right here, while you watch, unless you do as I say,” he said, and his voice was almost pleasant. Clay looked at him for a long moment, as if calculating, then nodded.

“Okay,” he said, his voice calm. “We’ll do as you say. What do you want?”

“Good,” Dave said. He relaxed his grip on Charlie’s neck, and she took a shaky breath. The others began to move toward them, away from the door. Charlie looked up at the man in the rabbit suit, and he met her gaze. It was you. You killed Michael. You killed Sammy. You took them from me. His eyes should have held something fierce and dangerous. They should have been windows to the rotten core inside. But they were only eyes, flat and empty.