Chapter Twelve: Espresso (1987)

"You'll need a hell of a lot of coffee."

The narrow-eyed man who had introduced himself as Fritz Smith chuckled to himself following this remark, as though a hot injection of several shots of espresso was an amusing image.

"Try and bring a magazine or something, too. A porno, maybe. If that's your kind of thing..."

The pizzeria was empty - quieter than a funeral and more foreboding than an exorcism. It had been this way much of the day, save for a few ignorant elders and teens who wanted to come and gawp at the "murder house."

Jeremy had arrived early so that Fritz could give him a rundown of everything that he would need to know for his first graveyard shift.

"Just in case you forget anything, I also left you a message on the phone," Fritz explained. "There's only a few things I should tell you about... But they are important."

Jeremy's attention started to diverge as he noticed the array of animatronics that were currently on the stage.

He had heard them referred to as toys, and certainly, they had a look of plastic about their shiny, polished faces and beady white eyes. But he was sure that he'd rather play with a roll of barbed wire than one of these mechanical menaces.

Bonnie, with her gaping maw of a smile and energetic "I drink three cappuccinos a day" stare, was perhaps the scariest of all. That said, Chica's gormless expression seemed to have evolved very little from the pictures Jeremy had seen of the original.

For a chicken, she sure looked like she wanted to gnaw off your head.

"...and so that's why you'll want to avoid using the toilets between 2-3 am," Fritz finished, packing the last of his belongings away and throwing on a coat. "Well, you got any questions?"

Jeremy snapped back to reality, smiling tiredly at Fritz.

"No, thanks."

Fritz patted him gently on the shoulder. "Well, like I said... you need anything, check the message."

And then he was gone, leaving Jeremy and the deathtraps together.

Alone.

Jeremy looked at the clock on the wall.

11:34.

There was definitely time for a coffee. Maybe two.

(-)

Across town, at the very same time, Milford tentatively pushed open the bathroom door, where Jenny was stood in front of the mirror, contortions of anger and fear still evident in her face.

"Jen? Can we please talk?"

Jenny's eyes dropped like metal shutters, a deep hybrid of sob and sigh escaping her lips.

"I don't think I have anything more to say about this, Milford."

Milford's shoulders sagged as he approached, not out of frustration, but out of sheer exhaustion of will.

"This isn't just about me, Jenny. It's for you, too. While that place is still open, the things that Joe did to those kids, and to you, can't be put to rest."

Jenny turned to face Milford, dark clouds eclipsing any sign of warmth in her features.

"It's over, Milford. That fucker's been buried so deep he'll never see the light again. Justice has been served."

"Do you really believe that?" Milford challenged.

Jenny withdrew slightly. It was evident that she did not.

"I.. I just don't want you to go anywhere near that place. It's cursed. First there was that incident with Andrew and the robber... And then... Well..."

"I'm not getting myself into any danger," Milford insisted. "I'm there to get a scoop - to shut it down!"

"There are other stories, Milford! Stories that won't get you killed!"

"But none of them will stop me from losing my job!" Milford shouted. The very instant he spoke, he regretted it.

Jenny's eyebrows shot up, then softened slowly - like a feather caught in the wind then gently floating back down.

"Is that what this is about? They're blackmailing you into this, Milford! Nothing is worth this!"

"I really, really like this job," Milford whispered. "But sitting on my laurels just work anymore, babe. Every journalist has their big story - this could be mine."

Jenny kept silent this time. Milford had played a winning hand and he knew it.

"Just trust in me, Jen," he whispered. "Nothing is gonna happen to me, or to you. To anyone. It'll be over before you know it."

'Wow' Milford thought. 'I sounded so good I've nearly convinced myself.'

(-)

4:20 A.M.

With the everlasting darkness, and the slow, steady drip of water from a leaky faucet down the hall as his backdrops, Jeremy decided now was as good a time as ever.

Opening his rucksack, he took out the little camcorder and tripod he had brought with him and set them up across his office. A fan blew on the desk behind him, giving the back folds of his shirt a well-needed blast of soothing cold air every couple of seconds.

When it was finally ready, Jeremy hit the [REC] button and sat hurriedly back in his chair, trying hard not to be distracted by the Freddy Fazbear costume head that he swiped onto the floor as he did so.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," he began, the echo of his voice sounding like a boom of thunder in the empty, hollow structure.

"Tonight, I begin my expose on the inner workings of America's most terrifying restaraunt: Freddy Fazbear's. As I speak, I am working night guard duty in the very same pizzeria where five young children were stolen away and murdered by Joe (-)."

From somewhere in the bowels of the restaurant, there was deep rumble. Jeremy swallowed hard, but was not deterred.

'It must be pipes. It's always pipes.'

"Fazbear Entertainment recently relaunched with a new group of investors, and millions of pounds of innovative upgrades, including new animatronics."

At this point, Jeremy turned the camera towards the mangled collection of machine parts that he had collected from the showfloor stage and brought back for evidence.

While it was in pieces, Toy Foxy certainly seemed like the least threatening of the new line.

"They wish to profit out of nightmares; build a new mountain of cash atop a foundation of blood and bone. And I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen."

Jeremy swallowed hard. This was the part he had been dreading, but the most important part of all.

"My name is Jeremy Fitzgerald. Two years ago, my little brother Billy was kidnapped and slaughtered by an employee from this pizzeria. And, I fear, he will never find peace whilst this place still stands."

Tears filled Jeremy's eyes as he turned off the camera and sat back in his chair.

Being a hero wasn't easy. Wasn't that what Billy had always told him, when they had played together with his G.I. Joe?

Jeremy froze, every part of him but the hot trickle of tears on his cheeks coming to a still.

From somewhere in the bowels of the restaurant, there was a sound - a sound that froze the bile in his stomach and softened his breathing to a fluttering whisper.

Music. Children's music. Like something out of a music box.

It was quiet; barely audible if not for the deathly silence in the building, and yet it burned holes in Jeremy's ears with its eerie, fantastical sounds.

'March of the Toreadors?' Jeremy thought. 'Is that the name of the song?'

Before he could come up with a conclusive answer, the distant song suddenly cut out, followed shortly by a loud crash from a room which Jeremy seemed to recall being labelled as 'storage.'

"Just some boxes falling over," Jeremy whispered, but without any conviction whatsoever.

Boxes don't just suddenly fall like that. They have to be pushed.

Then, he heard a noise at the end of the hallway leading to the security office. This one sounded more like a clang of metal, although Jeremy was not paying enough attention to be certain. He had already taken out the security tablet that Smith had provided him with and flicked it on.

The crackly camera feed burst into life just in time for Jeremy to see the very last revulsion of a door that had clearly been opened and left to swing.

Room 14. So, it had been storage then. Although by now such revelations were completely irrelevant.

Whatever was causing the noise was right outside the doorway.

"I have a gun!" Jeremy announced loudly, foregoing the horror movie trope of asking 'Is someone there?', the answer to which was already apparent enough.

'Oh god, why didn't I bring a gun?'

There was no reply, but Jeremy could feel the presence beyond the doorway. It was large, and eerily-calm, although there was a deepening anger there; a tension that caused the very air to shimmer as though ready to ignite at any moment.

"What could you possibly want with this dump?" Jeremy cried, sounding more pitiful this time. "There's no money here, and there never will be. All those murders saw to that."

If the intent had been to scare away the assailant, it had failed, for they had not so much as moved an inch in the time so far. Only, now it seemed as though they may not be alone, as the sounds of heavy footfalls echoed in an adjacent corridor.

"I'm just the night guard," Jeremy muttered feebly. "If you got a problem with Fazbear, you'll find him a couple of doors down. Do whatever you want."

The second set of feet stopped just short of the first, and again, there was quiet.

Jeremy was about to reach for the phone on his desk, for whatever good that may do, when he was cut off by one of the most horrendous sounds he had ever heard in his life.

A laugh.

But not just any laugh. The joyful, bombastic laughter of one Freddy Fazbear.

It was right outside the doorway, as loud as though the two of them were face-to-face. That odious laughter that had filled Jeremy with such rage up to this day - that hateful symbol of Fazbear Entertainment - now struck him only with a fierce, icy terror.

In the ensuing panic that gripped him, Jeremy found his hands on a discarded mask he found upon the floor, thrusting it upon his head in a desperate and irrational attempt to protect his sight from the terror that was right upon him. He heard nothing inside the head but the jittery croaks of his own breath, a darkness unlike any other closing in around him, ready to crush him into pulp.

He opened his eyes eventually, cold sweat dripping across his brow like a sticky waterfall.

And when he did, he saw another pair of eyes staring straight back.

(-)

Milford arrived in the parking lot beside Fazbear's at 10:30 A.M the next day. He was wearing his long brown trench-coat, an accessory which he believed suited the part he was trying to play.

Like a proto-Fox Mulder, he stood with his hands in his pockets and looked up at the laughing Freddy upon the top of the restaurant sign, once again picturing the terror which had gone down under his roof.

"This is for you, Jenny," he whispered. "For a sweeter night's sleep."

With such encouragement, he crossed the lot towards the door. Just as he was about to reach out for the handle, the door was flung open from the other side, and a man burst out of the restaurant, face white like a clump of chalk.

He barely even cast a look at Milford, so intent on crossing the lot and getting away from the Pizzeria as he clearly was.

A lightbulb flickered in Milford's head. His newfound instincts of journalism told him that this man would be a pertinent place to begin his investigation. Something about the man struck Milford, aside from the curtail of his coat as he propelled past.

Perhaps it was an empathy - a telepathic link - between former and current Fazbear employees. Or maybe it was the expression on the man's face, which could only have been either 'I've encountered something inexplicable' and evil or 'I've just had to clean out customer toilets.'

This was his man. His top interviewee. He was certain of it.

"Hey, wait!" Milford called, already moving after the man who had flung open his car door and was looking for all the world as though he wanted to floor it all the way home. At the sound of Milford's call, he turned around, confusion now scrambling with the anxiety on his face.

"Who the hell are you?" he shouted.

"I just want to talk," Milford replied, jogging briskly over before the man could hightail it. "You're an employee here, right?"

The man snorted. "Was. They couldn't get me back there if they paid me double."

"What happened?" Milford asked.

As though smelling an fierce odor in the air, the man suddenly drew back.

"I don't know you. Just leave me alone!"

Milford caught his arm, stopping the man and causing him to twist around again in alarm.

"Listen," Milford said, as calmly as he could. "You've seen something. Something you can't explain. And it all leads back here. Am I right?"

The man opened his mouth to protest, but found nothing but a bitter acid taste in his mouth. There were no protestations to come.

"I've been there, buddy. I was in the same position as you just two years back. When it comes to fucked-up pizzeria stories, I don't just own the t-shirt, I designed it. Let me help you. No, let's help each other."

Milford let go of the man's arm and it hung loosely at his side. He didn't try to get away again, simply nodding quietly, heaving a deep sigh.

Nodding back, Milford gestured to the coffee bar across the road. "Come on. Tell me all about it."

(-)

The other members had already gathered when Fritz walked in.

It was not a particularly-formal event. The time for formality had come and gone, and they had no need for it now. Not when they were on the victory lap.

Taking his customary seat next to Viola and Douglas, Fritz rolled up his sleeves and waited for the boss to begin his speech.

He was not left waiting long.

Mark Marvell walked into the office in one of his finest dark red suits, big grin glimmering bright white as per usual.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming," he called. "Things have proceeded very nicely, and so this might very well be the last time we need convene before... well, before our whole world changes."

The walking charisma-fountain took his seat at the head of the table, hands folded together and laid to rest casually on the glass table.

"As you all know, we have been pursuing the Fazbear site for over three years now. It is the perfect place to conduct the ritual. Two years ago, we acted through an outside party, but today we stand at the top of the mountain, as conquerors. We don't just own a single servant; now, we own the castle!"

Nods of approval from the many wealthy aristocrats at the table told Mark what he needed to know. That his leadership and his decisions continued to be unchallenged and respected.

"We will wait no longer. This Friday we will beckon our lord, Maghuul, and rule alongside him, as lords. And ladies, of course."

Chuckles rippled through the room. Even Fritz, a modest and ordinary sort of chap, was tickled enough to laugh heartily.

Mark joined in the laughter as it slowly died down. Wiping his face with a handkerchief from his pocket, he continued.

"As you all know, Fazbear's is host to dark forces, resulting from the actions of a janitor some four years ago. This makes it a perfect channel for our ritual, but also a dangerous proposition, should anything go wrong. The support of each and every one of you - the sacrifices you have made - will be recognised. Your hard work will earn you a seat in the palace of our lord!"

A roar of approval now. Mark beamed.

"Freddy Fazbear has reigned as king of that pizzeria for too long now. It is time to welcome true royal blood to the fold. Time... to give birth to a dynasty."

TO BE CONTINUED...