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Description
I hope you like blood, because the third week is 'too much blood'. Or is it just the right amount? Or maybe not enough? Anyway, if you don't like blood or wounds in stories, turn back now.

I like these short stories I'm writing. I feel that these ones may have less flow, but are more spontaneous and geared towards plot. After all, each one was made within a week.

This story is set in the year 1999, in Chicago, Illinois, USA. Night guard turned investigative journalist Phone Krasnyy Guy finds himself in an abandoned Freddy's location that has been recently cleaned, but remains empty.

Someone has it out for him, but he doesn't know who or why. Only that it knows about his past.

Swear word warning for the story. There's a lot of dialogue, and the character who does most of the speaking is Krasnyy (Phone Guy), so the volume of swears is actually rather low for his dialogue. But there are still a few.

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙

The world slowly faded back in for Krasnyy. He found himself in what appeared to be the all too familiar safe room of Fredbear and Friends. As his vision came back, so did his senses, and the pain.

At this moment he realised what had happened. There was a pain in his head, and his arm was in a crippling agony, in a pattern that he could never forget.

Somebody must have kidnapped him with the intention to kill him or cause him sever harm.

This could be anybody, as Krasnyy was hated by almost every Mob, Yakuza, and Mafia in Chicago. This had always simply been shrugged off as a side effect of being an investigative journalist, but it was at times like this where all of these negative ties become dangerous.

The intercom seemed to be working, and the receiver was out of its slot, dangling down nearby.

As Krasnyy looked around, it seemed as if someone had cleaned up since this place was last really used. The floor wasn't covered in dirt, and the walls were their usual grey. Unnerved by the rooms unusual cleanliness, he leaned slightly towards the receiver, only to find that it was on, and someone was on the other end.

Unable to hear who they were, be begun to speak, hoping they would hear, and hoping that they were friendly.

"Hey, sorry for calling this late, just wanted to say something.

Well you've probably heard of the ' Panic attack of 85'. It wasn't even late 85 either. It was literally January. And as you have probably guessed, it has something to do with a panic attack. Let me explain!

First of all, I've worn the 'Fredbear' suit exactly once. I hated it. The metal, the claustrophobia, ugh.

Well, I was sweating bricks. Completely freaking out. Six months or something prior, I literally saw two people die in these things. No wonder I stated to panic when I started to sweat.

Lucky, there were some new protocols around suit usage, and being allowed to change out of the suit at any time was one of these changes. So I told the other performer, walked quickly to the safe room, and got out of that death trap faster than you could say 'what are you doing?'.

The next five minutes were spent rocking back and forth in a corner, glad to be out of the suit, but still freaking out.

And then the boss walked in - I still hadn't even calmed down yet - and told me that I wouldn't have to wear those suits again, but I would have to do about half of the paperwork regarding security and security guards. It was only half, because I was 16, so I was still classed as I minor in Illinois, so legally couldn't do some parts of the paperwork. This would also come with a new job title and responsibilities: head of training for security. You do pretty much what it says on the tin.

Obviously I said yes. I didn't want to touch those death suits again, but I still had to. Why? I had to clean the damn thing. I was sweating bricks remember? But after cleaning it, I wouldn't have to touch them again, and that was true. So as soon as I calmed down enough to actually get up, I grabbed the cleaning supplies, and got to scrubbing out the suit.

The head? Cleaned. The arms? Cleaned. The legs? Cleaned. The hands? Cleaned. The feet? Cleaned. The torso? Fuck that. That's what caused my problems.

So I got to cleaning the torso, and for the torso, you really have to get your hands in there. There's no tools big or sturdy enough to clean it without sticking your arms in. You just have to stick the crank in and hope you don't knock it over or out.

I don't exactly remember what happened, but I had my arm in the suit, and the next second, I was in pain. Metal ripped into my arm. That was the exact thing I was scared of. And it happened. Albeit just to my arm, but it was fucking painful.

To make matters worse, the intercom was on the other side of the room. So I had two choices, slowly bleed out and hope the show ends before I die, or slowly drag the torso across the room, causing me to bleed out of my arm faster, and use the intercom to contact front desk. Guess which one I did.

I dragged that torso all the way across the room. I was in absolute agony. I honestly thought my arm was going to just tear off at some points, but I made it. Bearly.

When I actually called front desk, I must have almost gave the poor sods a bledy heart attack. I was just shrieking into the phone. I think they understood, because I could hear footsteps running to the door. And that's when I finally blacked out.

Why am I telling you this, you ask?

Well some sicko has knocked me out, draged me back to that exact location, and spent their sweet ass time carving those wounds back into my arm. I think they threw in the broken wrist and stab to the gut for free.

- Yes and I know it wasn't Taylor, because this bastard has zero class or style. They tore my sleeve to make a make-shift bandage to wrap around my head, and cut through my sleeve to find the bledy scars."

Krasnyy sighed and tried to grab the receiver with his non-broken arm. As he tried to listen to what was on the other end, he heard a familiar voice.

"Alright, I'll be there shortly. Just hang on, ok?"

Relived that someone was coming to find him, Krasnyy started to focus on the current problem at hand: staying conscious. To fill the void and ignore the pain, he started to hum a Russian lullaby that he remembered from his childhood.

He never expected to hear someone else hum along.

It was a male voice. Heavy footsteps could be heard from outside the room, and they were getting closer.

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙

Link (broken up to appease the DA algorithm) to my FNAF amino blog:
http ://am inoa pps. co m/p /mp 6xpz

FNAF (c) Scott Cawthon.
Artwork, story, and interpretation of the characters belong to me.

Description
I hope you like blood, because the third week is 'too much blood'. Or is it just the right amount? Or maybe not enough? Anyway, if you don't like blood or wounds in stories, turn back now.

I like these short stories I'm writing. I feel that these ones may have less flow, but are more spontaneous and geared towards plot. After all, each one was made within a week.

This story is set in the year 1999, in Chicago, Illinois, USA. Night guard turned investigative journalist Phone Krasnyy Guy finds himself in an abandoned Freddy's location that has been recently cleaned, but remains empty.

Someone has it out for him, but he doesn't know who or why. Only that it knows about his past.

Swear word warning for the story. There's a lot of dialogue, and the character who does most of the speaking is Krasnyy (Phone Guy), so the volume of swears is actually rather low for his dialogue. But there are still a few.

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙

The world slowly faded back in for Krasnyy. He found himself in what appeared to be the all too familiar safe room of Fredbear and Friends. As his vision came back, so did his senses, and the pain.

At this moment he realised what had happened. There was a pain in his head, and his arm was in a crippling agony, in a pattern that he could never forget.

Somebody must have kidnapped him with the intention to kill him or cause him sever harm.

This could be anybody, as Krasnyy was hated by almost every Mob, Yakuza, and Mafia in Chicago. This had always simply been shrugged off as a side effect of being an investigative journalist, but it was at times like this where all of these negative ties become dangerous.

The intercom seemed to be working, and the receiver was out of its slot, dangling down nearby.

As Krasnyy looked around, it seemed as if someone had cleaned up since this place was last really used. The floor wasn't covered in dirt, and the walls were their usual grey. Unnerved by the rooms unusual cleanliness, he leaned slightly towards the receiver, only to find that it was on, and someone was on the other end.

Unable to hear who they were, be begun to speak, hoping they would hear, and hoping that they were friendly.

"Hey, sorry for calling this late, just wanted to say something.

Well you've probably heard of the ' Panic attack of 85'. It wasn't even late 85 either. It was literally January. And as you have probably guessed, it has something to do with a panic attack. Let me explain!

First of all, I've worn the 'Fredbear' suit exactly once. I hated it. The metal, the claustrophobia, ugh.

Well, I was sweating bricks. Completely freaking out. Six months or something prior, I literally saw two people die in these things. No wonder I stated to panic when I started to sweat.

Lucky, there were some new protocols around suit usage, and being allowed to change out of the suit at any time was one of these changes. So I told the other performer, walked quickly to the safe room, and got out of that death trap faster than you could say 'what are you doing?'.

The next five minutes were spent rocking back and forth in a corner, glad to be out of the suit, but still freaking out.

And then the boss walked in - I still hadn't even calmed down yet - and told me that I wouldn't have to wear those suits again, but I would have to do about half of the paperwork regarding security and security guards. It was only half, because I was 16, so I was still classed as I minor in Illinois, so legally couldn't do some parts of the paperwork. This would also come with a new job title and responsibilities: head of training for security. You do pretty much what it says on the tin.

Obviously I said yes. I didn't want to touch those death suits again, but I still had to. Why? I had to clean the damn thing. I was sweating bricks remember? But after cleaning it, I wouldn't have to touch them again, and that was true. So as soon as I calmed down enough to actually get up, I grabbed the cleaning supplies, and got to scrubbing out the suit.

The head? Cleaned. The arms? Cleaned. The legs? Cleaned. The hands? Cleaned. The feet? Cleaned. The torso? Fuck that. That's what caused my problems.

So I got to cleaning the torso, and for the torso, you really have to get your hands in there. There's no tools big or sturdy enough to clean it without sticking your arms in. You just have to stick the crank in and hope you don't knock it over or out.

I don't exactly remember what happened, but I had my arm in the suit, and the next second, I was in pain. Metal ripped into my arm. That was the exact thing I was scared of. And it happened. Albeit just to my arm, but it was fucking painful.

To make matters worse, the intercom was on the other side of the room. So I had two choices, slowly bleed out and hope the show ends before I die, or slowly drag the torso across the room, causing me to bleed out of my arm faster, and use the intercom to contact front desk. Guess which one I did.

I dragged that torso all the way across the room. I was in absolute agony. I honestly thought my arm was going to just tear off at some points, but I made it. Bearly.

When I actually called front desk, I must have almost gave the poor sods a bledy heart attack. I was just shrieking into the phone. I think they understood, because I could hear footsteps running to the door. And that's when I finally blacked out.

Why am I telling you this, you ask?

Well some sicko has knocked me out, draged me back to that exact location, and spent their sweet ass time carving those wounds back into my arm. I think they threw in the broken wrist and stab to the gut for free.

- Yes and I know it wasn't Taylor, because this bastard has zero class or style. They tore my sleeve to make a make-shift bandage to wrap around my head, and cut through my sleeve to find the bledy scars."

Krasnyy sighed and tried to grab the receiver with his non-broken arm. As he tried to listen to what was on the other end, he heard a familiar voice.

"Alright, I'll be there shortly. Just hang on, ok?"

Relived that someone was coming to find him, Krasnyy started to focus on the current problem at hand: staying conscious. To fill the void and ignore the pain, he started to hum a Russian lullaby that he remembered from his childhood.

He never expected to hear someone else hum along.

It was a male voice. Heavy footsteps could be heard from outside the room, and they were getting closer.

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙🌹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙

Link (broken up to appease the DA algorithm) to my FNAF amino blog:
http ://am inoa pps. co m/p /mp 6xpz

FNAF (c) Scott Cawthon.
Artwork, story, and interpretation of the characters belong to me.