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Description
Requiem with a Birthday Cake
By Kim McFarland

It was a dark and stormy night.

Lightning flashed and rain pelted the ceiling. The thunderstorm could not be seen from within the building, which had no windows. Thunder growled through the walls, a reminder of the outside world.

A figure stepped out of a car. He hastily pulled a pair of boxes that were just large enough to be unwieldy out of the front passenger seat. Bending protectively over the boxes, he dashed to the exit door. After a brief pause to nerve himself, he unlocked the door and stepped in.

Nobody was waiting for him. With a silent sigh of relief he closed the door behind himself, but did not shut it completely; he wanted a quick escape route just in case. He'd have to be insane to stay here any longer than he had to.

Shoot, he thought, he was insane to come here at all. But there was one thing he felt he had to do. He had worked for six dreadful nights in this horror house, and the terrible things he had seen and heard had prompted him to do some research.

The story he had pieced together from old news articles and web sources was a sad one. Decades ago someone had killed an unknown number of children at the pizzerias that bore the Freddy Fazbear title. Then the robotic mascots had started malfunctioning. After several attempts to retool the franchise, the restaurants had been closed forever. Then, years later, a horror house capitalizing on those tragedies had been built. Only one functioning animatronic had been found, and it was as deadly as the others were reported to be. And the killer had never been caught.

He did not believe in ghosts. But something had been clamoring for his attention, he thought as he put the boxes on the table in the security office. One was a square, long and wide but only an inch and a half tall. He opened it, revealing a wheel of pizza. Inside the other, more compact box, was a cake.

He set the cake on the desk. He fished around in his pockets and found a packet of little pastel candles and a lighter. Quickly he stuck candles in the cake—ten ought to do—and lit them. He looked up; nothing was staring back at him from the window or doorway. Feeling ridiculous, he sang very softly as he lit the candles,

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you."

That was as far as he was willing to push his luck. He picked up the boxes, darted out into the rain, and locked the door behind himself. He got to the safety of his car and locked its doors. As he drove away he said a prayer for the children.

Happy birthday?

The song brought back distant memories.

One stood by the office door. It was unable to move, what little remained of its body no longer functional. It was no more than haunted scraps. It had seen the guard return, but instead of staying and defending himself, he had put something down and sung a song.

Curious, the ghost looked at what he had left behind. What it saw jogged its memories. Pizza and birthday cake, the candles twinkling cheerfully, brightly-colored frosting balloons on the cake. It remembered cake and pizza.

It remembered a party. It remembered eating pizza and cake, and it remembered being with friends, and watching the animals on the stage as they sang and told jokes, then stepped down from the stage to join the party. And it remembered being one of the animals, singing into a microphone and bantering with its fellows.

Another, attracted by the memories of the first, drew close. It, too, saw the food and remembered. It remembered the party, and singing along with the animal mascots, and it remembered, as a mascot, bringing cake to delighted children.

Another came. It remembered the party and the food. It remembered playing with one of the mascots, taking it apart and putting it back together in whimsical ways as if it were made of Tinkertoys. The mascot didn't mind; its pleasure was to entertain the smaller children.

Another remembered the taste of cake and thick, sweet frosting. It remembered the taste of pizza. And it remembered standing on the stage, playing its guitar and joking with the others.

Another came. It remembered singing Happy Birthday to You. It remembered blowing out the candles and opening presents. And it remembered rising out of a box and handing gifts out to children.

Spirits clustered around the cake and pizza, remembering the party as it should have happened. They remembered the food and the fun, and none of what had ended their party. And for the first time in thirty years they were happy.

They were children again. They let go of the artificial bodies they had clung to for safety and, taking their memories of cake and pizza with them, continued their party elsewhere.

He heard something. It was so soft he could not tell where it came from; one of the arcade machines randomly flickering to garbled life, as they sometimes did, or an old audio tape playing over the speakers. It was different from the background noise of the storm, which he had learned to ignore.

A strange, flickering light drew his attention. He slunk into the exit hallway and looked through the window. Then he stared, nonplussed, at the offering in the office.

Pizza and cake. That brought back memories. He had worked in a place—several places—where they had children's parties. He liked being around children. He especially liked wearing the costumes, despite how heavy and hot and smelly they were, because they let him go among the children. The kids had trusted him then, so much that he could take one now and again.

The final time had been a joy. He had taken an entire party of five and made them his. And, as always, he had been careful, so he had never been caught. The restaurant, afraid that the scandal would do them in, covered up the crime. They always protected him.

But someone did know who had done it. The ghosts of the children he had claimed had surrounded him one night. They had screamed at him relentlessly and would not let him escape. He had hidden in a mascot suit. Then he had felt powerful. The phantom children could do nothing to him!

Then, searing pain. The crossbeams and other animatronic structures that should have stayed locked out of the way when a person was wearing a suit sprang back out, lancing into him like the spikes in an iron maiden. He had screamed, and bled, and finally died while the ghosts watched.

And he had remained within the suit. They had hidden the costume with him still inside in a room which had then been sealed away, a new wall built in front of it so nobody would know of its existence. Every so often someone would open the little vent in the ceiling and throw in a handful of quicklime.

Years had passed, with him trapped inside the rabbit suit. Years of silence, of nothing but his own mind and memories. Then the hidden room had been discovered and he has been brought here. Electrical life had been given to his costume, and he could move again! He followed the sound of prey, remembering the old days, but he never found its source, only a guard who was an annoyance at best. And he was surrounded by the same ghosts that had chased him into this suit.

Pizza and birthday cake were of no use to him. This body could not eat. But there was something he did want. He approached the cake and carefully picked off one of the candles. Then he dropped it into a trash basket.

A small blaze started. He took several of the candles off the cake and began walking around the place, dropping them into the recreated debris littering the halls and watching the hungry flames leap up. Then he returned for more, and dropped them in other halls. Satisfied, he sat down to watch the biggest, most energetic fire. It would consume this whole building, and him with it. Once this body was destroyed—this ridiculous, ugly, decayed suit—he would be free!

Fire engulfed the building quickly. The roof, cheaply built, fell in, and the rain poured in. Then the fire department came and put out the rest of the flames.

All of the salvaged relics were ruined. Plastic burned and deformed, metal melted; they were unrecognizable. Only one could be somewhat identified: a badly-burned robot that, they guessed from what was left of its ears, was supposed to be a rabbit. It had been right under the roof that had collapsed, and the rain had saved it from complete destruction.

The next day it was carried away and put into storage, along with any other leftovers that could be sold at auction.

This is based loosely on the games Five Nights at Freddy's, Five Nights at Freddy's 2, and Five Nights at Freddy's 3, all of which are copyright © Scott Cawthon. The story itself is copyright © by Kim McFarland (Negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy this story for personal use only.

Description
Requiem with a Birthday Cake
By Kim McFarland

It was a dark and stormy night.

Lightning flashed and rain pelted the ceiling. The thunderstorm could not be seen from within the building, which had no windows. Thunder growled through the walls, a reminder of the outside world.

A figure stepped out of a car. He hastily pulled a pair of boxes that were just large enough to be unwieldy out of the front passenger seat. Bending protectively over the boxes, he dashed to the exit door. After a brief pause to nerve himself, he unlocked the door and stepped in.

Nobody was waiting for him. With a silent sigh of relief he closed the door behind himself, but did not shut it completely; he wanted a quick escape route just in case. He'd have to be insane to stay here any longer than he had to.

Shoot, he thought, he was insane to come here at all. But there was one thing he felt he had to do. He had worked for six dreadful nights in this horror house, and the terrible things he had seen and heard had prompted him to do some research.

The story he had pieced together from old news articles and web sources was a sad one. Decades ago someone had killed an unknown number of children at the pizzerias that bore the Freddy Fazbear title. Then the robotic mascots had started malfunctioning. After several attempts to retool the franchise, the restaurants had been closed forever. Then, years later, a horror house capitalizing on those tragedies had been built. Only one functioning animatronic had been found, and it was as deadly as the others were reported to be. And the killer had never been caught.

He did not believe in ghosts. But something had been clamoring for his attention, he thought as he put the boxes on the table in the security office. One was a square, long and wide but only an inch and a half tall. He opened it, revealing a wheel of pizza. Inside the other, more compact box, was a cake.

He set the cake on the desk. He fished around in his pockets and found a packet of little pastel candles and a lighter. Quickly he stuck candles in the cake—ten ought to do—and lit them. He looked up; nothing was staring back at him from the window or doorway. Feeling ridiculous, he sang very softly as he lit the candles,

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you."

That was as far as he was willing to push his luck. He picked up the boxes, darted out into the rain, and locked the door behind himself. He got to the safety of his car and locked its doors. As he drove away he said a prayer for the children.

Happy birthday?

The song brought back distant memories.

One stood by the office door. It was unable to move, what little remained of its body no longer functional. It was no more than haunted scraps. It had seen the guard return, but instead of staying and defending himself, he had put something down and sung a song.

Curious, the ghost looked at what he had left behind. What it saw jogged its memories. Pizza and birthday cake, the candles twinkling cheerfully, brightly-colored frosting balloons on the cake. It remembered cake and pizza.

It remembered a party. It remembered eating pizza and cake, and it remembered being with friends, and watching the animals on the stage as they sang and told jokes, then stepped down from the stage to join the party. And it remembered being one of the animals, singing into a microphone and bantering with its fellows.

Another, attracted by the memories of the first, drew close. It, too, saw the food and remembered. It remembered the party, and singing along with the animal mascots, and it remembered, as a mascot, bringing cake to delighted children.

Another came. It remembered the party and the food. It remembered playing with one of the mascots, taking it apart and putting it back together in whimsical ways as if it were made of Tinkertoys. The mascot didn't mind; its pleasure was to entertain the smaller children.

Another remembered the taste of cake and thick, sweet frosting. It remembered the taste of pizza. And it remembered standing on the stage, playing its guitar and joking with the others.

Another came. It remembered singing Happy Birthday to You. It remembered blowing out the candles and opening presents. And it remembered rising out of a box and handing gifts out to children.

Spirits clustered around the cake and pizza, remembering the party as it should have happened. They remembered the food and the fun, and none of what had ended their party. And for the first time in thirty years they were happy.

They were children again. They let go of the artificial bodies they had clung to for safety and, taking their memories of cake and pizza with them, continued their party elsewhere.

He heard something. It was so soft he could not tell where it came from; one of the arcade machines randomly flickering to garbled life, as they sometimes did, or an old audio tape playing over the speakers. It was different from the background noise of the storm, which he had learned to ignore.

A strange, flickering light drew his attention. He slunk into the exit hallway and looked through the window. Then he stared, nonplussed, at the offering in the office.

Pizza and cake. That brought back memories. He had worked in a place—several places—where they had children's parties. He liked being around children. He especially liked wearing the costumes, despite how heavy and hot and smelly they were, because they let him go among the children. The kids had trusted him then, so much that he could take one now and again.

The final time had been a joy. He had taken an entire party of five and made them his. And, as always, he had been careful, so he had never been caught. The restaurant, afraid that the scandal would do them in, covered up the crime. They always protected him.

But someone did know who had done it. The ghosts of the children he had claimed had surrounded him one night. They had screamed at him relentlessly and would not let him escape. He had hidden in a mascot suit. Then he had felt powerful. The phantom children could do nothing to him!

Then, searing pain. The crossbeams and other animatronic structures that should have stayed locked out of the way when a person was wearing a suit sprang back out, lancing into him like the spikes in an iron maiden. He had screamed, and bled, and finally died while the ghosts watched.

And he had remained within the suit. They had hidden the costume with him still inside in a room which had then been sealed away, a new wall built in front of it so nobody would know of its existence. Every so often someone would open the little vent in the ceiling and throw in a handful of quicklime.

Years had passed, with him trapped inside the rabbit suit. Years of silence, of nothing but his own mind and memories. Then the hidden room had been discovered and he has been brought here. Electrical life had been given to his costume, and he could move again! He followed the sound of prey, remembering the old days, but he never found its source, only a guard who was an annoyance at best. And he was surrounded by the same ghosts that had chased him into this suit.

Pizza and birthday cake were of no use to him. This body could not eat. But there was something he did want. He approached the cake and carefully picked off one of the candles. Then he dropped it into a trash basket.

A small blaze started. He took several of the candles off the cake and began walking around the place, dropping them into the recreated debris littering the halls and watching the hungry flames leap up. Then he returned for more, and dropped them in other halls. Satisfied, he sat down to watch the biggest, most energetic fire. It would consume this whole building, and him with it. Once this body was destroyed—this ridiculous, ugly, decayed suit—he would be free!

Fire engulfed the building quickly. The roof, cheaply built, fell in, and the rain poured in. Then the fire department came and put out the rest of the flames.

All of the salvaged relics were ruined. Plastic burned and deformed, metal melted; they were unrecognizable. Only one could be somewhat identified: a badly-burned robot that, they guessed from what was left of its ears, was supposed to be a rabbit. It had been right under the roof that had collapsed, and the rain had saved it from complete destruction.

The next day it was carried away and put into storage, along with any other leftovers that could be sold at auction.

This is based loosely on the games Five Nights at Freddy's, Five Nights at Freddy's 2, and Five Nights at Freddy's 3, all of which are copyright © Scott Cawthon. The story itself is copyright © by Kim McFarland (Negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy this story for personal use only.