The news forecasts six inches of snow, a disconcertingly small amount this late in the season, but that at least limits the chances of Bonnie stranding him midway to work when its tires grow allergic to the idea of traction. The newscaster cuts to sports—the Vikings are gearing up to take down the 49ers after a rocky season. Then, traffic: a seven-car pileup along I-94 just off St. Cloud has claimed the life of a passenger.
Ricky sits on the couch, pillow tucked under his chin as he watches the foggy television screen for any news relevant to his area. All there is to report is a rash of vandalism at the foreclosed strip mall.
No missing persons. No funny business down at the not-so-abandoned pizzeria. Not a mention of Mark the Security Guard, and he's made to wonder if anyone would come looking for him had he been the one to disappear. Had he taken the job two years ago, had he vanished off the face of the Earth, there would have been no one to bat an eyelash.
Afton could have pursued robotics, and given how articulated those animatronics were, Ricky is certain he must have broader mastery than he first led him to believe. The way they moved. They way they emoted. If they were all his doing, then Afton is leaps and bounds ahead of the game in the field of artificial intelligence.
And yet he's plucking people off the street. Marching them from his office to what may very well be a slaughterhouse dressed up as a carnival of horrors. At least he's moved on from little kids. "Jesus Fucking Christ."
It's always the geniuses who walk around with ten missing screws in the head.
Hitting the recall button on the remote brings up MTV, Carson Daily introducing #7 on the day's Total Request Live. It's the Backstreet Boys. Again. Ricky remembers when people would actually listen to good music. Nowadays it's all about what sticks in someone's head the longest, even when the lyrics don't make a lick of fucking sense.
The doorbell ringing is nearly a mercy before realizing that it is far too early for it to be anyone from the shop. He lowers the volume, eyeing the door in hopes that whoever it may be gives up as quickly as America's pursuit of good music, but he has no such luck.
He gets up on the third ring when whoever is pushing the button does not ease off it. Looking through the peephole, he heaves a lung-aching sigh at the fish-eyed face on the other side.
Threading the chain into place, Ricky opens the door as far as it can go and slots his face in the gap. "Can I help you, Officer?"
"I'm here for a wellness check." Thumbs hooked in her pants' pockets, the cop offers him a pitiful smile. "As in, I was concerned and wanted to see how you were holding up since you didn't come into work today."
The correct course of action in any other scenario would be to shut the door and call the cops, but as it stands Ricky knows he's shit out of luck. "Great. Sure, yeah. What's another name for the stalker list."
She shuffles her feet, looking over her shoulder while rubbing at her arm. "I know this is a little unorthodox, but you seem like a really nice guy and I don't want you getting into any more trouble."
"Am I in trouble?" He joins in her glancing to make sure no one else is going to pop out of the neighbors' bushes. "If you were gonna bust me for trespassing I feel like you could have done so twice already."
"I will, if you do it again." She's serious. "You need to stay away from that place. Do you understand?"
He considers her for a moment. She's pretty in a 'girl next door' kind of way, so much so that he has to stop and spare it another thought. In his experience, women cops tend to be hulking figures who look like someone's holding rotting meat under their nose the entire time. "What's your name? Three meetings in, this feels like a date."
The comment does not amuse her. "Vanessa. Vanessa Shelly." She reaches for her badge and holds it up to the cracked door. "Badge number, in case you want to verify."
"Nice to formally meet you, Vanessa. I got a question for you." Paranoid at her constant fidgeting, Ricky unlocks the door and guides her inside. He deadbolts it behind him once she's standing in the middle of his tiny living room in that detached way cops like to pretend they can pull off. "The security guard that was working nights at Freddy's. Do you know him?"
"Not personally, but since it's on my beat we've crossed paths a couple of times."
"He stopped showing up to work."
"I hear the turnover rate at that place is unheard of."
"Why is that?"
Vanessa shakes her head, her ponytail brushing against the tassels hanging off the lamp shade. "You saw those mascots. How long do you think you'd last working nights there?"
"He's not answering his phone. Or his pager. We had plans and he never showed."
She's standing very, very still, like a statue trying to pass itself off as human. It's uncanny, watching the warring flickers across her ivory face, the tug-of-war between a sunny disposition and the calculating programming done by The Man. "You two were close?"
"That feels like an inappropriate question, Officer Shelly."
"I can check in on him."
"I would like that very much. Can I get you something to drink?" Ricky gives her a smile before walking into the kitchen. "I'm not sure exactly where he lives, but I think you should be able to ask the proprietor for his information. If you know him, of course."
She follows him closely, shaking her head. "We've spoken several times."
"With Mark?"
"The proprietor."
"Seriously? He's a nice guy. Real piece of work," Ricky says, rinsing a cup without taking his eyes off her.
"Yeah," Vanessa starts, then pauses, her eyes widening when she spots her own mistake. Cops aren't the only ones who know their way around entrapment procedures.
The situation places itself in third place for tensest standoff in Ricky's history, as he's very aware that she's packing heat and all he has is an island made out of flimsy plywood standing between him and a bullet.
"You're in on it," he murmurs, trying to keep his hands visible in case she gets trigger happy. He knows how this kind of shit goes for folks like him. "Whatever's going on in that place, you know about it."
She turns her head away, nostrils flared like an enraged bull with nowhere to rush. "Stay out of there. Please. I only have so much authority."
"You're a cop," he spits out. "You are the authority."
Vanessa shakes her head, and a glint of genuine fear slips behind her silver-blue eyes. "If I catch you anywhere near that place, I will take you in."
People say silences can hang heavy, but in truth silences like this one are lighter than air, unrooting feet and tossing stomachs. The absence of gravity robs the pursued of their ability to run, denies them the chance of survival. The pursuer remains free to move as he pleases.
"Good to see you're doing well," Vanessa says as she heads towards the door. "If you need me, call the station and they'll dispatch whoever can get here fastest."
And with that, she's out the door and the space is empty, like no one ever visited.
Water continues to spew from the faucet. Celine Dion's voice drifts from the television and he knows he will never see Mark again.
The front door is still open and he stares out at the world beyond it, at the bare branches of the tree in the front yard that sway in the frigid breeze of an oncoming storm. He watches the tail end of the patrol car as it speeds down the street, the late afternoon preparing to fold into early nighttime.
He slams his fist against the countertop. "Fuck!"
Shutting the door and sliding the deadbolt back into place, he storms towards the storage closet down the hallway. Throwing open the rickety doors, he rummages through the assortment of unused linens and sleeping bags he's used to block off the bottom shelf. He has to get down low and extend the full length of his arm to reach for the wooden box.
It's heavy in his hands, the nice finish on the cherry wood being what kept him from throwing it out along with the rest of the garbage in the Chevy's trunk.
He unceremoniously drops it onto the island and tries to crack it open. The lock is a rudimentary six number code, and if he starts going through every possible combination now it would take months to guess, and that's if he gets lucky. It doesn't stop him from trying the basics. 000000. 123456. 654321. 314159. Statistically, it is probably a birthday. Or an anniversary. Part of his social security number.
Ricky picks up the box and gives it a shake like a kid trying to figure out his Christmas present. When nothing moves, he slams it back down.
He's frustrated. Beyond frustrated, he's pissed the fuck off. He's sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden, wound so tightly that the slightest nudge will set him off and God he fucking hates Celine Dion.
The knives in the drawer rattle when he yanks it open, grabbing the dullest yet sturdiest blade he has. If the damn box won't give, then he'll carve it open with the same expertise of a man who's been doing an awful lot of carving throughout the past decade.
"Alright, you piece of shit. Show me what you're hiding. Show me what's so fucking precious to you."
He jams the end of the knife into the tight seam between box and lid, shimmies it as far as it will go, removes it, then shoves it right in again. It's a slow and arduous process, the wood sturdy and unyielding, determined to keep its secrets. But Ricky's got all the time in the world, all of its grief and desperation wrapped in a messy little ball that unspools just a little more the harder he stabs.
Finally, he stabs through. He twists the handle with enough brute force to snap it clean off. Doesn't matter. He grabs another knife and tries again. He tries and tries until at long last the lock clicks. He throws the lid open.
It's exactly what he expected.
The sight of human remains does not shock him, but what does is the size of them. They aren't kids' bones. Whoever they belonged to, they're wrapped in yellow flannel and sitting on top of scraps of denim. A pair of cracked glasses are tucked into a leather case, alongside a red carpentry pencil.
No name, no picture, nothing, but there is a reverence here. A smidgen of humanity in all its twisted and fucked glory tells him that whoever this was, Afton mourned them. He mourned them and never let go — is still holding on to a pile of bones with such jealousy that Ricky glances at the box of matches beside the stove.
Afton took his brother. It's only fair.
But
He was a prime suspect in the case of four missing kids. He was on the premises as acting proprietor and manager when another kid died. He's clearly bought out the police, too.
You do not think yourself smarter than him. You run. Do you understand?
In the end, Ricky chooses not to burn it. Wrapping up the box in a clean fitted sheet, he shoves it back into the closet and drags the doors shut. It is good practice to always keep at least one bargaining chip on hand.
What if I told you I could give you back your brother?
William Afton is insane. He has to be. Because what all could that possibly mean? Jeremy is dead. Well and truly dead. Ricky was there as his limp body was lowered from the jaws of an animatronic, his head nothing but a stump of bloody pulp. He saw him, mourned him, and paid the price for the chaos that followed.
He drifts between his bedroom and the living room throughout the coming days. He stands in the shower for hours, then haunts the kitchen in the dead of night with the lights off. Snow comes, painting the night sky the color of rust.
There is no differentiating between what is a nightmare, what is a memory, and what is the current reality he inhabits. He debates crawling into the Chevy and taking it out for a joyride two states over, to chase the thrill he knows will leave him feeling sick and consumed by self-hatred — but at least he'd feel something other than whatever this is.
All his hands do is tremble as he continues his idle pacing.
He'll come to Ricky. He knows he will. Afton wants something from him, and he wants it enough that he's traveled across state lines for it, baiting him to his bed, luring him to his den.
The web says that's where it happened, where those kids went missing back in '85.
He's a sick man, and while Ricky is in no position to cast the first stone, he is self-aware enough to recognize that retribution is not the same as plucking up innocents. Afton is, whichever way he cuts it, someone who should be at the very top of his list, and yet he isn't. He isn't, because he said he could bring Jeremy back.
Is that why?
Because the phantom sensations of his long fingers wrapping around his neck, pressing against his windpipe visits from time to time. The drag of him deep inside, the light of mischief in his captivating eyes. His stupid smirk. A pre-dawn breakfast and quiet contemplation in the aftermath of a horrific murder.
It doesn't fucking matter what Ricky wants or doesn't want, what he does or doesn't do. William Afton has taken up residence in some messed up part of him and he is bewildered that that was even a possibility. The why is a beast to be conquered another day, because for now, his main priority is to get the damn chiming of the music box to stop.
"I don't know what you want," he whispers at no one, hand pressed to his temple as his heart races.
Down the hallway, a spindly black hand crawls past the door frame. Always a warning he can never quite place.
A knock on his door pulls him away from the fog, and he's standing in the bathroom, gripping the sink splattered with coffee-colored bile. Couldn't even make it to the toilet, but frankly he can't even remember stepping away from the kitchen at all.
He continues to stand there, debating whether or not the knocking had been in his head.
Splashing cold water on his face and rinsing off the sink, he studies his reflection in the mirror. It should be illegal for anyone in their twenties to look this haggard.
The knock comes again. Could be Roger, Jenny, Dean, Vanessa, literally anyone. He hasn't been to the shop in days.
Looking through the peephole drags a sigh out of him. He's been churning those out like the country's most effective assembly line.
Forehead to the door, focusing on grounding breaths, Ricky releases the chain and slides the bolt back. His guest doesn't try the handle, and when he backs away to open the door, Afton just stands there with his hands tucked into his pits.
"Now, I'm about to be completely honest with you," he says, holding up a hand to keep Ricky from slamming the door in his face. "I think we got off on the wrong foot."
There are a lot of things Ricky can say, from swears to prayers, to outright demands that may well end in violence. He can also skip right to the violence part. He's been stagnant for so long, adrift in a smog of untethered unreality, that bruising his knuckles on a nose might just be what he needs to recenter himself.
Unfortunately, that is not how the exchange goes. Ricky is reluctant to entertain the thought that Afton plotted this as a distraction, because there is no way anyone could possibly come up with such a stupid plan.
"What the fuck are you wearing?"
Mostly because Ricky's ego cannot handle how easily it trapped him.
"May I?" Afton says, gesturing behind Ricky.
He's dumbfounded enough to step aside and allow him access to his apartment.
Afton has the decency to scrape the snow off his shoes — platforms, when he's already well over six feet tall — on the mat before coming inside. He removes his jacket — is that suede? — to reveal a horrendously garish satin shirt underneath.
The illusory haze must have not yet lifted.
"Tell me why I shouldn't call the cops on you," Ricky says, still staring aghast. He cleaned up his beard and combed his hair.
Afton stops brushing off his pants — his fucking bellbottoms, he's wearing bellbottoms — to blink at him in surprise. "You invited me in, my friend."
"We're friends now, huh. Should I call you Bill, then? Old Willy? Or do you prefer something derogatory? I can get real creative."
Afton quirks a tiny smile. "You can call me whatever you want. I've gone by many names throughout my life."
"I bet." Ricky looks him over once again. The outfit is the kind of 60s chic that was actually in back in the day, rather than the over-the-top Halloween costumes Kmart will have on sale for twenty bucks. It always boggles him why certain fashions are considered a costume when there's office photos of his old man dressed the same way.
He blinks himself away from the faint image of a sepia-toned polaroid and back to his living room.
"Can I help you with something?"
Hands on his hips, Afton slowly nods his head as if trying to come up with a good way to state what he wants. "We should get to know each other."
Ricky laughs. He doesn't mean to, the sound so loud in the room he manages to startle himself. Afton's grin widens, mistaking his incredulousness for mirth. "The hell are you talking about, old man?"
"You see, I've gotten to thinking a bit since last we met. You saw them." He pauses, relishing in the sound of his own voice. "And I thought to myself: wow, he has to get it now, he has to understand, now, where I'm coming from."
"You're not making any sense."
"Not yet, I know. It's a lot to wrap your head around, I get it." Afton takes a step towards him and reconsiders a second one when Ricky doesn't move away. He touches a hand to his own chest in a demure fashion, the perfect picture of a bleeding heart. "The sheer enormity of what we can do here… It could be just like old times."
Ricky's shaking his head so minutely that neither picks up on it. "I don't know what you're talking about, William." The oldest 'old times' gets is Denny's.
The way Afton's eyes blink is comical behind the thick panes of his lenses. "Look," he says, flattening his hands down his chest in a gesture that is not unlike that of a teenager asking someone to prom. "I know it seems like we're doing this backwards, but there's this cool joint downtown that I think you might like."
His Quantum Mechanics 304 lectures were easier to follow than whatever the fuck is going on in his living room. "Dude, I haven't slept in days. I'm not gonna piece together whatever fucking puzzle you're trying to riddle me."
Afton's shoulders, honest to God, sag. "I'm asking you out."
"No, you're not," he blurts out, unable to keep up with the whiplash. "Dressed like that?"
"It's disco night at Club 34."
Ricky's eyebrows crawl up so high they feel close to leaving his face altogether. "Disco night at the gay club. Your outfit's a decade off."
He rubs his middle with a self-satisfied hum. "I'm not taking pointers from someone who wasn't alive at the time." Still, he plucks up his collar. "Interested or not?"
Rolling in the hay with Afton in the privacy of a bedroom is one thing, but being seen out in public dancing with a man twice his age? Disco? Fitting, considering the whole exchange feels like he's snorted cocaine off a hooker's back.
Strike Afton being insane. This whole warped perception of the world Ricky inhabits has lost its mind. There are a million and one reasons why he should send him packing, number one being how much Ricky wants to say yes.
A yes for morbid curiosity; the desperation to believe in a blatant lie; something else he doesn't want to inspect too closely.
He wants to cut into him, peel back skin, muscle, and bone until he's reached the cavity of his rib cage and wrapped his fingers around his heart to see if it's still beating — to understand the human machinations of a monster.
"Give me twenty," Ricky says, because of course he does. There is no fighting against the portent in the room, dressed to the nines and smelling of charming cologne. "I need to wash up." He needs to dunk his whole brain into a bucket of iced bleach.
"Great," Afton says, taking himself over to the couch and dropping into it like he owns it. "Oh, and you might wanna spruce yourself up a bit. I don't expect us to match, but at least try to look like you're there with me."
Ricky stares at him, at the easy smile that almost diffuses the weight and implication of his tone.
"I should have a button down I can salvage," he says, dipping into his bedroom and barricading himself until he's ready to face the atrocity he's welcomed.
Not for the first time, he wonders just what the hell he did in order to wind up here.
The answer, obviously, is a lot, but he's still allowed to ask.
• 
