To Investigate is to Err

Six o’clock announced its presence with the tolling of a clock and a surge of relief. The cheers of children played over a crackly speaker nearby, a somewhat morbid bit of dark humor from Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza staff. The guard slumped back into his chair, feeling all at once bone-tired and as if a tremendous amount of weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. When he had taken this job after seeing the listing in a cramped corner of the town newspaper, it hadn’t been with the idea that he would be fending for his life in mind. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d be swiftly rendered homeless without the promise of a paycheck to his landlord, he wouldn’t even have applied. Here he was, though; three days into his new job and already mostly adjusted to the idea of risking his life for minimum wage.

After a few moments to collect himself, the guard took in a deep breath and pushed himself up. The chair creaked dangerously in protest but didn’t collapse, and the guard fiddled with his hat and tie while he collected his things, eager to get out of the uncomfortable and ill-fitting purple uniform as soon as possible. His badge and name tag were dropped in his bag, and the harsh yellow light from the security office’s sole light bulb glinted off the face of both.

The name ‘Goerge’ stared back up at the guard, who frowned once again at the blatant misspelling of his name which nobody in management cared enough about to fix. Not like he was ever in position to meet customers, but the principle of the matter still stood. George stuffed his hat down into his bag, right on top of the nametag innocently sitting at the bottom.

Really, George thought as he finished collecting his things and turned to leave his office, he was doing a pretty good job at this whole ‘survive the night’ mess. Why, none of the animatronics had even gotten close to him without a door slamming in their face. They were ramping up in skill, but he was getting better even faster. At this rate he might even make it to his first paycheck!

George stumbled out of the office, turned down the hall heading outside – “Fuck!” – only to nearly run into Chica.

The yellow animatronic stared through the guard, eyes tilting in slightly different directions, and her jaw clattered open. A brief hiss of static burst forth and soon cleared as a recording of some manager who no longer worked there played. “A reminder to all Freddy Fazbear employees that foul language is not tolerated within the premises.”

George attempted to calm his painfully racing heart and stop his pants from needing to be dry-cleaned with some deep breathing. Unfortunately, as soon as he regained control of himself his blood ran cold and his knees buckled. Chica had been right outside his door, and he’d had no idea. If she had been just the slightest bit faster, he may very well have died.

Chica stayed still as a statue, completely unmoving except for her jaw snapping back up and her eyes gradually drifting further apart. It was giving George the creeps, so he mustered every ounce of courage he had and anxiously tiptoed around the animatronic, moving slowly and with his hands up to show that he wasn’t a threat like he remembered from his time as a boy scout. His eyes were glued to Chica, ready to bolt in case she made any sudden moves. Then, right as he was almost out of her line of sight, the animatronic’s head snapped to face him, eyes firmly locked onto his face.

George’s legs cramped painfully with how hard they tensed in preparation to sprint, but Chica didn’t make any more moves. Instead, she just continued staring unnervingly at George. The guard’s heart clenched with worry, and he attempted his best impression of a sloth as he slowly lifted one leg to take a step away.

That was when the whispering started.

It was indistinct at first, bordering inaudible, so much so that George thought his nerves were playing tricks with his ears. The whispering grew a bit louder, though, and he realized it wasn’t his imagination. His eyes darted to the door to freedom down the hall, thinking that maybe someone outside was talking, but it wasn’t coming from that direction. No, to his building dread, the sound was coming from Chica.

George wasn’t what one would call a brave man, and he would be the first to admit it. In fact, some people would even go so far as to call him a coward, which he might even charitably agree with if caught on a good day. Those same people would probably also call him reckless, cocky, and curious to the point of being nosy, which he felt was uncalled for. It was some mixture of those traits, though, that stayed his feet. Instead, hesitantly, looking for all the world like a deer about to bolt because it heard a twig snap, George leaned closer to Chica.

The whispering was still hazy, but it cleared up the closer George got to Chica. When he got within arm’s reach he was almost able to make out the words, and when he was close enough that he wouldn’t have been able to escape they finally solidified into something.

“J’n jo mpwf xjui b dijdlfo”

Unfortunately for George, that somewhat was complete gibberish. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it and stayed where he was, trying to pick out words from what was becoming increasingly apparent was a jumbled mass of syllables.

Then Chica moved, and George leapt away.

Contrary to the worst case scenarios running through George’s mind, however, the animatronic merely began a plodding march to the stage, ready to take her place once more upon it for a day full of parties. George frowned and watched Chica’s back as she walked away, right up until she vanished around a corner which led to the main party room.  George shook his head, brow furrowed as he spun on his heel and made his own march for the exit door, trying to put the encounter out of his mind.

After all, there was no way he had heard the words, “Help me,” right?



Sunrise came an hour later, and when the first rays of dawn peeked out over the horizon it was to George locking his bike to a rack not at his dingy apartment complex like usual, but outside the Washington County Library branch in town. This early in the morning it wasn’t open yet, but the librarian always got there early and was fine with letting people in before hours, so he didn’t have long to wait. A bit of kicking rocks and staring at dew later and the door was opened and he was ushered in.

“Mornin’,” the librarian offered in greeting, bags under her eyes and a cup of coffee clasped somewhat desperately in one hand. “What brings you here so early?”

George chewed his lower lip as he tried to work out what to say. “I just wanted to look at some old newspapers if that’s okay.”

The librarian squinted at him and took a long sip of her coffee. “You got a library card?” she finally asked, just as the silence was beginning to grow awkward.

“Uhh, no. I don’t.”

“Well, you can’t check any of ‘em out, then, but you can look at ‘em all you want.”

George let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “That’s perfect, thanks.”

The librarian turned and walked off without another word, and George hurried to follow after her. The library wasn’t exactly big, but the shelves were arranged in a way which probably made sense to the woman in front of him but left him feeling like he was looking at a disheveled maze. As a result, when the librarian finally stopped in front of a door in one corner of the building, George felt a bit lost. He shifted his weight from one foot to another anxiously while she took her time juggling keys on a keyring, softly cursing to herself as she went. The refusal to put down her coffee meant she was working one-handed, so the whole process took longer than it probably needed to. Just as George was about to offer to help, though, she thrust out a key with a wordless cry of triumph and unlocked the door.

Beyond the door was a dingy room, lit by a single yellow bulb which dangled from the ceiling. Shelves lined every wall, and boxes were stacked on each of them. A thick layer of dust coated every available surface, and when George stepped in, he took a breath and felt as if he was choking on the dust which had been kicked into the air by his footsteps.

The woman spoke up behind him, ignoring George’s coughing with casual disinterest. “This is where we keep old newspapers. It’s sorted by date starting from the top corner,” Here the librarian gestured vaguely at one side of the room, “and wraps around to the bottom corner on the other side. Feel free to stay as long as you’d like.”

Having said her piece, the librarian turned and left. George fought to get his coughing under control, eventually pulling the neck of his shirt up over his face and wiping at watery eyes with his sleeve. He looked around the room, a bit lost on where to start, and saw a box on the bottom shelf to one side which had less dust than the rest. Start recent and work his way back it was.

The town newspaper ran on a semiweekly basis, with issues running every Monday and Thursday. Therefore, each box contained more-or-less six months’ worth of newspapers. The issue on top of the pile in the first box, the most recent one, was discarded. The second one was flipped open and skimmed for clues. Nothing jumped out at George. There was an ad for Freddy’s in the same cramped corner as always, but it offered no hints. The sports section was only plastered with the local high school football team’s victory over a rival school. Current events took up two pages but said nothing of value. Local crime and the obituary were forced to share a page, and as promising as he’d hoped they would be there was nothing there, either.

George put the paper to the side and grabbed the next one out of the box, but this one too was lacking in meaningful information. So was the next one, and the one after that. Soon the entire box had been emptied to no avail, and George moved on to the next one.

Under the dim light that turned yellowing pages even more-so, in the cramped space, breathing in the dust-laden air, George wasn’t actually sure what it was he was looking for. He squinted his way through page after page, no idea what kind of clues he wanted but certain that he would recognize them when he found them. All he could think about was that half-heard whisper, that he wasn’t even sure had been real.

A couple more boxes and George was forced to sit back and rub his tired eyes. There was no smoking gun, nothing that could help him puzzle together the loose pieces floating around in his head. Other than an old article about some kids going missing and a subsequent arrest, there was nothing at all about Freddy Fazbear’s even in the papers. In fact, were it not for the ads which appeared in every issue without fail – a grim reminder of how many people had lost their lives working at the restaurant – there wouldn’t have been any indication that the place existed at all.

That thought rolled around in George’s mind. No indication at all. It wouldn’t leave his brain, bumping around inside his tired, overworked mind, refusing any and all attempts to banish it. George grabbed a nearby paper and scanned it in an attempt to flush the thought out of his head, one from two years prior. The local school’s baseball team started the season off strong with a win. The softball team, on the other hand, lost pretty miserably. A new café opened up in town. Some busybody got elected to the school board. Feel good story about a lost pet being found. Reminders to keep vehicles locked at night. A few deaths in the obituary, all of them elderly.

That last part snagged in George’s head. It caught on the previous thought he’d been reading to get rid of, and the two clung together and bounced around until they finally slot into place. George’s eyes went wide.

There was no mention of a guard dying.

George sprung over to the disorganized pile of old newspapers and tore through them, checking the obituary for each one. His thoughts were confirmed. Not a single one made mention of someone who worked nightshift at Freddy’s dying. It didn’t make sense, though. Considering the frequency with which ads appeared in the paper and the hazardous work conditions, it was hard to believe that nobody had died working there. There was no chance of it. Freddy Fazbear’s was covering this up somehow.

When George finally burst free from the library, the sun was high in the sky. Normally he would be sound asleep in the seedy, run-down apartment he called home at this time of day, but he couldn’t afford to sleep now. Not with something like this going on. He had to tell someone.



George trudged up the stairs to his apartment, eyes glued to the floor and completely dejected. Nobody had believed him when he tried to tell them what was going on at Freddy’s. The police hadn’t, the newspaper hadn’t, not even the random people he’d raved to in the street. By now half of town had probably heard him or heard about the crazy loon running through the streets. He hadn’t been able to convince anybody.

It was with weary eyes that George looked up at the door to his apartment. The doorknob stuck as it always did when he unlocked it, and just as usual George was forced to shove a few times before the door flew open. He ignored the smoke-stained walls and the trash on the floor, instead wandering over to the bedroom where he collapsed on a mattress laying on the floor.

George really wasn’t sure why he had even bothered. Survive the week, get a paycheck, then quit and find a new job that was less hazardous to his health. That had been the plan, and now George wasn’t sure what to do. If Freddy Fazbear’s was finding ways to cover up regular deaths at their restaurant, then there was no way they’d let him walk. He was a loose-end.

The guard made a promise to himself. He’d get to the restaurant early. Early enough that he could have free reign to snoop around before his shift started. He’d find proof, or evidence, or even another clue. Something. Something that would let him take them down before they took him down.

It was a few fitful hours of rest later that saw George biking back to work. Just like always, he pedaled his way across town. Just like always, he stashed his bike behind the dumpster so that nobody would find it. Just like always, he pushed open the employee entrance and entered the building. This time, though, he was over thirty minutes early and ready to search.

The bright flash of pain as something collided with the back of his skull, however, he wasn’t ready for.

George stumbled against the wall and slid down it to the floor. He looked down in confusion at the red puddle growing beneath him, dripping to the tile in an ever-expanding pool. His ears were ringing, his mouth felt full of cotton, and bright lights swam in his vision. A shoe entered his sight carefully avoiding the blood, and George looked up. His hiring manager stood over him wielding a bloody crowbar.

“It’s a shame you talk too much, Jeff,” the man said with a sigh, false sincerity clinging to every word. “You were one of the good ones. I was even going to offer you an extra shift if you made it to the weekend. Guess that’s gone up in smoke, huh?”

George wasn’t quite sure what was going on, and his legs couldn’t take his weight and buckled when he tried to stand up. “Wh-What are you talking about?”

The manager didn’t answer, instead choosing to step over him and towards the door. “Hopefully the next guy won’t have a crush on Chica like the last one did. That one turned out too messy, even for me.” The manager continued mumbling to himself even as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. The click of the lock felt like a death sentence.

George was still laying there when midnight came. A brown figure materialized out of the nearby shadows soon after, picking the guard up almost gingerly and carrying him back. George tried to struggle, tried to kick and scream, but the ringing of his head kept getting louder and the colors bled from his vision and his limbs grew weaker with every passing moment.

Bonnie was waiting in the backroom when Freddy pushed open the door, slumped over on a table inactive and costume already half off. George made one last, desperate attempt to escape, but Freddy’s grip was too strong and all he succeeded in doing was flopping onto the table.

Freddy closed in, shoving George into Bonnie’s costume and closing it in around him. First there was pressure. Then there was pain. After that was begs for mercy and pleas for help, and then darkness.

Then Bonnie opened his eyes and screamed.