Five Nights At Freddy's

Chapter One: Anonymous

It was a cold, rainy September day. The lights in the office flickered as he sat back in his chair, his wide brimmed fedora covering his eyes. Cigarette smoke still wafted through the air from about ten minutes prior, mixing in with the rain splattering on his windowsill. The faintest sound of a saxophone drifted in above the rumble of traffic outside.
He heard the clicking of her shoes like mechanical gears before he saw her walk into his office. She wore a tight fitting black dress with bright red lipstick, her brown hair pulled half back so that the rest fell elegantly around her shoulders. Her stunning, electric eyes seemed to glisten in the yellow lamplight as she fell into the seat before his desk in distress.
"Oh Inspector," she pleaded, a gloved hand draping across her forehead, "you simply must help me.  I'm in grave danger.  There's a very bad man after me."  Mike Schmidt lifted his head, taking in the beautiful woman before him. 
"Not to worry, I'll take care of it." 
Suddenly, from the shadows behind her, he could see two eyes gleaming through the darkness.  A deep laugh cut through his dream, sending a chill down his spine. 
You can't save them, Mike Schmidt.

Mike Schmidt awoke with a start at his desk, the ring of the nearby phone cutting through the air furiously. His heart was racing, only after a moment did it start to slow down, becoming in time with the secretary, Nancy's, heels as she strutted down the hall. He groaned, massaging his temples. He didn't even remember falling asleep; one second he'd been writing about the new shopping center that had opened a few blocks down and the next he'd been dreaming about some fuzzy, quickly fading something or another.  He vaguely remembered the flash of piercing blue eyes, but it was starting to bury itself into the deepest recesses of his memory. He paused, trying to remember what had happened and why his palms were sweaty.  He shrugged it off, gripping the smooth plastic of the phone before picking it up to his ear.
"Good evening, you've reached the New York Times, this is Mike Schmidt speaking," he greeted, his pen poised above his paper. Static on the other end greeted him. He winced slightly as the voice broke through like an axe on steel. Wherever the caller was coming from, it had to have terrible reception.
"Schmidt, perfect," the voice exclaimed, "I've been trying to get a hold of someone that would listen for nearly two hours... um... I-I read your piece on the Henderson murders last summer, it was very moving... maybe you'll... hear me out?" Mike winced. He thought then that that story would be his magnum opus, the very thing to land him in a cushy executive job. The story hardly went noticed because some celebrity couple had broken up around the same time, making front page news. Suddenly, no one cared about the family of four found in early July, nor the twists and turns that had led to the school teacher being found guilty of quadruple homicide.
"Thank you," he managed at last, shifting awkwardly in his chair, "to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
"I'd like to remain anonymous."
"Oh," Mike managed, doubt riddling his words, "okay."
"It's too risky right now, Mr. Schmidt," the man said hastily, "but I assure you that if you stick with me, the story I'm about to tell you will catapult your career." Mike's heart skipped a beat. He'd heard this before, of course, he got several calls a week claiming this. If he was lucky, they usually ended up being a dead end for some underground drug ring or crime syndicate. Often times, however, it was just the hallucinations of a druggy in his apartment or a delusional old lady. Mike sighed, clicking his pen.
"Alright, tell me what's going on, anonymous." The man sighed, pausing.
"It was 1987 in a small town south of you that you've probably never heard of. I was a security guard at a local family pizzeria... you know, like with the animatronics and arcade and stuff? It was a big, shiny, new building with brand new technology... anyway, one day five kids went missing and they never turned up again."
"Five kids?" Mike stuttered, "as in five different, autonomous children went missing? All at once? Was anyone ever arrested?"
"Yeah," the man agreed, "but I swear to you Mr. Schmidt, the person they arrested was innocent. He's on parole now. I just want justice, Mr. Schmidt, and to know what happened to those five kids."
"Sir, this sounds like a job for the police," Mike explained cautiously, biting his lip.
"No," the man snapped, "the police already messed up in arresting the wrong person and ruining his life. They'd refuse to open the case again at the risk of looking like the idiots they are."
"I don't know."
"Look," the man pleaded, "I've been calling your office all night, no one would listen... a-and I've read your paper on the Henderson murders over and over again. You... felt something... didn't you?" Mike exhaled through his nose, his eyes closing as he recounted the events again. He did. He'd seen the crime scene after the police showed up and had taken the bodies off to the morgue. He'd seen the shattered pictures on the wall, the bloodstains on the carpet... the television was still on playing cartoons. He'd seen the spilled coffee on the table, the overturned plates of pancakes in distress; he'd seen how one normal Sunday morning could turn completely upside down and change everything in the blink of an eye. After a moment, the voice tried again, "Mr. Schmidt?"
"Yeah," Mike croaked, "yeah I felt something."
"What this case needs is someone who can feel," the man insisted, "someone who won't stop until the story's out there... someone like you." Mike sighed, thinking it over. If what the man said was true, this story could truly be his first step toward greatness. The opportunity to be the vehicle of justice... the weight of it didn't escape his mind. Mike straightened, determination running red hot through his veins.
"Alright, what do I have to do?"

Mike's suitcase bulged with clothes enough to last him a week or two.  The anonymous tip hadn't been too specific on how long it would take to find the information he needed to bring the story to light.  He had an address and the name of the owner of the pizzeria, a Mr. Montgomery Iris, scribbled in his notebook, as well as the name of a motel for lodging. 
You are not to involve the police, the anonymous tip had commanded, and you are not to tell anyone you're a reporter either.  You're to go in under cover and apply for the night shift position that you saw in the paper, that way, you can sneak about without anyone noticing.  Mike rubbed his neck, this level of detective work wasn't typical for journalism, but then again it wasn't unheard of.  He'd always dreamed of going undercover to solve a mystery, but he'd always imagined it a bit more glamorous than a children's pizzeria. 
"Will I need an alias?" Mike had asked, somewhat hopefully. 
"It shouldn't come to that," the man had said, "as long as you're careful, they won't become suspicious.  Sometimes the best way to hide is in plain sight, I think it's safer if you stick with your real name.  Tell them you've just moved there from New York City and you need a quick job to make ends meet.  They shouldn't ask too many questions at that point."  Mike had sighed in disappointment.  "There's one last thing that will make this tricky..." the man had hesitated, "the current location is not where the disappearances took place, that restaurant has since been closed and gutted."
"Are you joking?" Mike had snapped.  "How the Hell am I-?"
"All the original employees that are still alive still work there," the man had insisted, "Hell, they even recycled the old animatronics that were in storage at the last place.  If the culprit is one of them, you'll still be able to figure it out.  Besides, Iris doesn't toss anything, he's too cheap, so any evidence you'll need is readily available in his office."  Mike had rubbed the back of his neck and slid further into his chair as though to sink with his stomach to avoid feeling the oncoming dread.
"Why now?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Why now," Mike repeated, "you said this happened back in eighty seven... why is this just now reaching us?" The anonymous tip sighed.
"I would have reached out sooner if I could have... but I swear to you, Mr. Schmidt, I can feel it... the case is still as fresh as ever."

Mike felt his stomach twist, looking at the mess of notes that the man had provided him resting on his luggage.  It seemed that little was known about the situation, most of the evidence surrounding the case was consequential- whoever they had arrested must have just been at the wrong place at the wrong time.  All that was known was the five kids went missing and the man that was charged with their kidnapping was only arrested because he was in the building the night after they had gone missing.  In the eyes of the officers, that was enough evidence to detain him until he confessed. 
"Can I speak with the person they convicted?" Mike had asked. 
"I'm sure he'll come forward when he's ready, right now it's too risky." 
"Great," Mike had managed, "is there anything else I need to be aware of?"
"Yes," the man had informed, "it's about the animatronics... but I'm sure they'll brief you when you get there.  Just... be careful."  And with that, he had hung up leaving nothing but a heavy silence on the phone. 

With an audible poof, Mike flopped back on the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  He'd majored in journalism and minored in theatre... this wasn't how he expected to be utilizing his degrees.  He picked up his home phone resting on the nightstand, his notebook perched on his bent knees as he dialed in the numbers the anonymous tip had instructed.  A short, robotic jingle of the Toreador March graced his eardrums. 
"Hi, you've reached Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, this is Montgomery Iris speaking, how may I help you today?" 
"Hello, this is Mike Schmidt, I'm calling in response to your want ad in the newspaper.  I'm new in town and would like to schedule an interview for the position of night guard?" 
"Really?"  Mike felt his brow furrow. 
"Yes?" 
"Wonderful!  You're hired," Mr. Iris informed cheerily. 
"Wait what?" Mike sputtered. 
"How soon can you start?"
"Well... I mean... I guess... Monday?" Mike tried, "don't I need to... I don't know, fill out paperwork or something?" 
"Legally, yes," Mr. Iris agreed, "but you can do that... oh... Monday morning?  That'll give us time to show you around and get you fitted for a uniform before your shift."  Mike raised an eyebrow.  He didn't know much about the application process, he'd started working as a journalist right out of college, but he was very nearly certain this was highly irregular and unethical. 
"Sounds great," he breathed. 
"Wonderful, see you then Mr. Smoke." 
"It's-!" Mike began as the phone call ended with a click, "...Schmidt... thank you... sir..."