Five-Nights-at-Freddys-The-Silver-Eyes.pdf

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Chapter One
He sees me.
Charlie dropped to her hands and knees. She was wedged behind a row of
arcade games, cramped in the crawlspace between the consoles and the wall, tangled
electrical cords and useless plugs strewn beneath her. She was cornered: the only way
out was past the thing, and she wasn’t fast enough to make it. She could see him
stalking back and forth, catching flickers of movement as he passed before the gaps
between the games. There was scarcely enough room to move, but she tried to crawl
backward. Her foot caught on a cord and she stopped, contorting herself to carefully
dislodge it.
She heard the clash of metal on metal and the farthest console
rocked back against the wall. He hit it again, shattering the display, then attacked the
next, crashing against them almost rhythmically, tearing through the machinery,
coming closer.
I have to get out, I have to!
The panicked thought was of no help; there was
no way out. Her arm ached, and she wanted to sob aloud. Blood was soaking through
the tattered bandage, and it seemed as though she could feel it draining out of her.
The console a few feet away crashed against the wall, and Charlie flinched.
He was getting closer; she could hear the grinding of gears and the clicking of servos,
ever louder. Eyes closed, she could still see the way he looked at her, see the matted
fur and the exposed metal beneath the synthetic flesh.
Suddenly the console in front of her was wrenched away and toppled over,
thrown down like a toy. The power cords beneath her hands and knees were yanked
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away, and Charlie slipped and stumbled, almost falling. She caught herself and looked
up, just in time to see the downward swing of a hook…
Welcome to Hurricane, Utah.
Charlie smiled wryly at the sign, and kept driving. The world didn’t look any
different from one side of the sign to the other, but she felt a nervous anticipation as
she passed it. She didn’t recognize anything. She had not really expected to, not this
far at the edge of town where it was all highway and empty space.
She wondered what the others looked like, who they were now. Ten years
ago, they were best friends. And then
it
had happened, and everything ended, at least
for Charlie. She hadn’t seen any of them since she was seven years old. They had
written all the time as kids, especially Marla, who wrote like she talked: fast and
incoherent. But as they grew older they had grown apart, the letters had grown fewer
and further between, and the conversations leading up to this trip had been perfunctory
and full of awkward pauses. Charlie repeated their names as though to reassure herself
that she still remembered them.
Marla. Jessica. Lamar. Carlton. John. And Michael…
That was the reason for the trip after all, Michael. It was ten years since he died, ten
years since
it
happened, and now his parents wanted them all together for the
dedication ceremony, all his old friends there when they announced the scholarship
they were creating in his name. Charlie knew it was a good thing to do, but the
gathering still felt slightly macabre. She shivered, and turned down the air
conditioning even though she knew it was not the cold.
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As she drove into the town center, Charlie began to recognize things: a few
stores, and the movie theater, which was now advertising the summer’s blockbuster
hit.
She felt a brief moment of surprise, then smiled at herself.
What did you expect, that
the whole place would be unchanged? A monument to the moment of your departure,
frozen forever in July, 1985?
Well, that was exactly what she had expected. She
looked at her watch. Still a few hours to kill before they all met up. She thought about
going to the movie, but she knew what she really wanted to do. Charlie made a left
turn and headed out of town.
Ten minutes later, she pulled to a stop and got out.
The house loomed up before her, its dark outline a wound in the bright blue
sky. Charlie leaned back against the car, slightly dizzy. She took a moment to steady
herself, breathing deeply. She had known it would be here. An illicit look through her
aunt’s bank books a few years before told her that the mortgage was paid off, and
Aunt Jen was still paying property taxes. It had only been ten years; there was no
reason it should have changed at all. Charlie climbed the steps slowly, taking in the
peeling paint. The third stair still had a loose board, and the rosebushes had taken over
one side of the porch, their thorns biting hungrily into the wood. The door was locked,
but Charlie still had her key. She had never actually used it. As she slid it into the lock
she remembered her father putting its chain around her neck.
In case you ever need it.
Well, she needed it now.
The door opened easily, and Charlie looked around. She didn’t remember
much about the first couple of years here. She had been only three years old, and all
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the memories faded together in the blur of a child’s grief and loss, not understanding
why her mother had to go away, clinging to her father every moment, not trusting the
world around her unless he was there, unless she was holding tightly to him, burying
herself in his flannel shirts and the smell of grease, and hot metal, and him.
The stairs stretched straight up in front of her, but she did not move directly
to them, going instead into the living room, where all the furniture was still in place.
She had not really noticed it as a child, but the house was a little too large for the
furniture they had, and so things were spread out too widely in order to fill the space:
the coffee table was too far from the couch to reach, the easy chair too far across the
room to carry on a conversation. There was a dark stain in the wooden floorboards,
near the center of the room, and Charlie stepped around it quickly, and went to the
kitchen, where the cupboards held only a few pots and pans, and a few dishes. Charlie
had never felt a lack of anything as a child, but it seemed now that the unnecessary
enormity of the house was a sort of apology, the attempt of a man who had lost so
much to give his daughter what he could. He had a way of overdoing whatever he did.
The last time she was here, the house was dark, and everything felt wrong.
She was being carried her up the stairs to her bedroom although she was seven years
old, and could have gone quicker on her own two feet. But Aunt Jen picked her up as
they stopped on the front porch, and carried her, shielding her face as though she were
a baby in the glaring sun.
In her room, Aunt Jen set her down and closed the bedroom door behind
them, and told her to pack her suitcase, and Charlie cried because all her things could
never fit into that small case.
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