Chapter Text
Mike still wasn’t used to sleeping in a house that didn’t creak the way his own did. He woke before the sun had fully risen, as had become usual these days. Despite his sleep medication and the white noise that, while no longer necessary for his search for his brother, had become essential for any sleep at all, his paranoia and insomnia kept him from settling into a normal sleep schedule. On top of that, the quiet in Jeremiah’s house made him restless. There were no groans from old floorboards, no rattling pipes, no familiar noises. Just solid walls, warm and unyielding, much like the man himself. That and the plush green couch where Mike lay now, staring up at the fan rotating lazily above him. It was too quiet, too unfamiliar, and he did not like it. It made him feel like an unwelcome guest, no matter how many times Jeremiah told him to make himself comfortable.
He could probably go back to his own house, despite the damage left by the animatronics. However, the memory of recent events and the lingering unease (not to mention the security risks from the damages) made the thought impossible for him to even entertain.
Abby, at least, was sleeping better than he was.
She’d taken to Jeremiah’s spare room faster than Mike had expected, pinning up a few of her drawings with tape and unpacking her robotics kit like it was temporary but acceptable. School had been helping in its own uneven way. She’d made some friends through all the madness surrounding the last year or so, and her new robotics teacher actually listened when she talked about her ideas instead of correcting her halfway through a sentence. What mattered most to him was that now, Abby came home excited about something, for once a genuine excitement that felt real and not forced.
And yet, he knew she still carried remnants of fear, the kind that couldn’t be fixed by a new classroom or a fresh set of friends. She still checked the locks twice. She still slept with the door cracked. She still flinched at certain sounds and kept the music box from that night close by.
So did he, if he was being honest.
Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes, and the guilt hit him immediately. Staying here, in a house with running water and heat, using Jeremiah’s generosity without contributing, did not feel right to him at all. With Jeremiah going out of his way to help him with so much these past few weeks… it didn’t feel like he had earned it. Every night he lay awake thinking about the repairs he could not afford, the money Jeremiah had offered and still given him despite his refusal, the groceries and breakfast always left on the counter. always left with a note that said, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He was worried about it anyway. He had no right to this, he told himself, but there was nowhere else to go.
He glanced around the kitchen. The coffee pot was still on the counter, as well the remnants of Jeremiah’s hurried, simple breakfast and the covered plates he could only assume was for himself and Abby. His friend had already left for work, leaving the house empty and silence heavy on his conscience. The place was quiet, except for the occasional hum of the refrigerator and tumbling of the washing machine. Mike exhaled slowly and pushed himself to his feet. He had things to do. He always had things to do.
He found Abby’s backpack waiting by the door, her lunch already packed and neatly labeled. She did not need him for reminders of many things anymore, and part of him was proud. Another part of him was tense, ready to react at any small sign that something might be wrong. And somewhere behind all that, he missed their old life. Even the quiet chaos, through frequent job switching, the dreaming about Garret’s disappearance, the tantrums, the sense of safety and steadiness, however fragile, that had existed before the last year or so of nightmares.
Mike wasn’t sure he’d ever see Vanessa again. They hadn’t spoken since that night, not even a text. He did not know what she could possibly be thinking, and he did not know if she held any resentment towards him, or herself, for his choice to distance himself and Abby from Freddy’s and the Aftons. Or if… if something else had taken her over. That thought tightened his chest, but he pushed it down. There was no point dwelling on her right now. Not when the rest of the day waited with its own list of problems to deal with, errands to run, and tasks that required his attention.
“Morning,” he said softly to Abby as he stepped into the spare room. She looked up at him, sleepy but alert.
“Morning,” she mumbled, already half-focused on the small robot she was tinkering with. It seemed like she’d not gotten much sleep last night either.
Mike managed a small nod. “Don’t stay up too late on that,” he said. She barely acknowledged him, absorbed in adjusting a circuit board. Mike was still a little uneasy around robots, but he was glad Abby had found something she enjoyed doing.
He allowed himself to smile a little. She was managing. Somehow.
Somehow.
He lingered a moment longer, letting the quiet settle around him, before slipping back out into the living room. He had chores to do, despite Jeremiah’s constant reassurance that there was no need for Mike to strain himself. He had errands. And maybe, just maybe, a reason to check on the old house later. Not entirely because he wanted to… but because he’d been doing repairs occasionally, usually with Jeremiah’s help. Not to mention that they’d come to Jeremiah’s with only the bare necessities, and there was always something they’d have forgotten that was important. In this case, it seemed to be Abby’s coloring pencils. The good ones, the ones that she liked more than the markers Jeremiah had picked up on impulse, but would never admit to his face. Mike supposed both of them felt at least a little guilty from all of his kindness.
Mike’s mind went back to the house they had left behind, the damage, the lingering echoes of what had happened, and the repairs that were always waiting. He shivered at the memory of that night, the shadows that danced over the walls, and the things that had moved there before. And of course, the Afton siblings. He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the practical. Batteries, dental floss, notebooks, coloring pencils. Things they needed. Things he could grab without overthinking it.
And yet, he could not shake the tension rising in him. Something about going back there always felt wrong, but still necessary.
--
The house smelled the same as it always had, dust and old wood, with something faintly metallic that never quite went away. He paused at the front door, looking at the broken locks and hesitating for just a moment before pushing open the doors and stepping inside. Everything felt too familiar, and yet nothing about it felt quite safe anymore.
Abby’s room was always the first place he went. That was where she left things that mattered, where he could find whatever she had forgotten, even now. And perhaps also to quell a part of his anxiety with it.
As he made his way down the hall, a low, faint, tinny voice echoed through the otherwise silent house.
“Mike.”
He froze. The sound was unmistakable, but it had no warmth, no life to it. Just the monotone crackle of an old text-to-speech device, like a voice stuck between two worlds.
Mike’s hand went instinctively to his chest, then fell and clenched at his side. He scanned the hallway, every shadow suddenly sharper, every creak of the floorboard louder than it should have been. He didn’t know if he should run, call out, or pretend nothing had happened.
“Mike,” the voice repeated, slightly louder this time. Mike followed the sound as it continued repeating his name until he found the source.
He recognized the device immediately, sitting on Abby’s desk half-buried in dust and random papers. The Faztalker. He had not expected it to do anything else than sit there silently, waiting. Charlotte was, hopefully, still asleep. Abby would play the music box often, usually claiming that the song was pretty (it was), or that it helped her sleep. They both knew the real, underlying reason behind it. But at this moment, he suddenly wasn’t quite sure.
He stepped further into the room and closer to the desk, careful not to knock over the chair, and picked up the small, green, Freddy-branded box. Dust rose in a thin cloud around it as he did. His fingers hovered over the buttons along the top, and he noticed the screen flickering faintly, as if the device wanted him to notice it.
Mike walked over to Abby’s bed and sat down, brushing some dirt off of the Toy Freddy head on the front. He let out a shaky breath. He had come here to grab some random items, nothing more, and yet his pulse had already picked up speed.
The voice spoke again, mechanical, slow, and calm.
“Mike.”
He jumped at how loud it was up close, almost dropping the box of pencils he’d grabbed from the desk as well. He pressed down the speaking button on top, glaring at the device as he did. “Who is…? Who’s there?” he said. His voice sounded hoarse, both small and too loud in the large, silent room.
The device remained silent for a moment, the screen blank. Then, slowly, green letters appeared, crawling slowly across the tiny display.
You always come here first.
Mike froze, staring at the small green screen. His pulse picked up again. How could it know that? Nobody else did. Jeremiah didn’t even know about the Faztalker, so it couldn’t be him. Abby, certainly not. Mike couldn’t possibly bear to bring her back here, at least not for now. Outside of them, nobody else knew that he and Abby weren’t currently staying here, let alone about these visits. He swallowed hard.
“What… what do you mean by that?” he muttered, his voice tight. He kept one hand on the pillows beside him, as if it would ground him.
The words changed again, crisp and deliberate.
Because you always do. First room, first stop, every time.
Mike’s stomach tightened. This was wrong. This was… impossible. He gritted his teeth and muttered under his breath, “Okay… Charlotte, or whoever you are, this is.. creepy. Just… leave me alone. Please. I’ve had enough of this torment on myself and my sister.”
The green letters appeared once more.
I am not Charlotte.
If the voice could have any tone at all, it probably would have sounded almost offended.
Mike froze. Relief and dread collided in his chest. Not Charlotte. So there was still a chance she was asleep and harmless. That meant it was a completely different person. Someone… he didn’t recognize. His hands shook slightly as he pressed the speaking button down again. “Then… who are you?”
The device paused, screen blank for a long, excruciating moment. Then the next line appeared.
Someone else.
Mike stared at the screen, almost baffled by the audacity of the unknown person on the other line. “How is- that is not an answer,” he said incredulously.
That is an answer. Just not one you like.
Mike let out a short, humorless laugh, his gaze flicking briefly toward the doorway, then back to the screen, shoulders tensing. Someone had known when he came back. Had known he was alone. Had known where the Faztalker was, how to connect to it, how to make it speak to him. This wasn’t a broken toy or a stray signal. This was deliberate.
“You don’t get to play games with me,” he snapped, thumb pressing harder against the button than necessary. “I don’t know who you are, or how you’re doing this. I didn’t invite this,” Mike said tightly. “And I don’t want it.”
Another pause. Not long. Almost thoughtful.
You’re still talking.
His breath caught for half a second. He hated that it was true. Hated that his body felt braced, ready, like it was waiting for something worse.
“I’m here because I had to be,” he shot back. “Not because of you. And definitely not because I trust you. You’re not.. You’re not supposed to be here anyway.”
I did not ask you to trust me.
That was it.
The tension snapped, sharp and sudden. Mike dragged a hand down his face, fingers trembling faintly. He should have shut this down the moment it spoke. Instead, he had let it go on long enough for the implications to sink in.
Whatever this was, it knew too much.
“Yeah,” he muttered, more to himself than the device. “No. We’re done.”
He clenched his jaw and turned the device around, prying open the back compartment to rip the batteries from their slots and pocket them, watching the screen go dark. Silent. Empty. It wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. The small green box was then promptly tossed into the top drawer of Abby’s dresser, shoved roughly beneath a pile of old drawings. His hands trembled as he walked toward the door. He needed air, needed to convince himself this was just a malfunction, nothing more. That he wasn’t being watched. That Abby wasn’t being watched.
Outside, the morning light felt almost too bright, like it was pressing against the unsettling yet familiar atmosphere in the house. He pocketed the box with Abby’s pencils, checked he’d grabbed the other few items on his list, and let out a long, shaky breath. He was safe. Abby was safe. The items were safe. That was all that mattered.
But deep down, he already knew this wasn’t over, and that this would not be the last time the Faztalker called his name.