One Night at Freddy's

Mike's Night Shift

Brats. They're all a bunch of spoiled, childish, brats. My mom forced me to come to this stupid housewarming party. The family that moved in here has 5 kids. 4 of them being annoying toddlers that beg and whine and cry if there isn't someone playing with them, feeding them, or helping them draw an ugly-ass picture.

I absolutely love them! If love meant you constantly wanted to strangle them and throw their body in a ditch.

"Hey, Katrina, right?" A voice behind me asked.

"Yeah?" I spun around, glad to have an excuse for not watching the kids.

"How are you? I haven't had the chance to talk to you for a while," It was Mike Schmidt, who moved in next door about a week ago.

"Hey, I'm doing good. How's that new job going?" I asked. There was a crash behind me and one of the children started whining, like those high-pitched whirs when a machine starts.

"Um... it's going. Uh, are you going to... uh," Mike gestured behind me.

"Help the kid? Nah, probably deserved it. How about we go check out the backyard and say we didn't see anything," I led him through the house, to the back door, and out to the yard.

"Listen, I, uh, wanted to tell you something," Mike broke into a cold sweat, a bead dripping down his nose.

"I'm listening."

"Uh, so the place I started working night shifts at... it... um..."

"It's at that pizza place right? Fatbear's or something like that? You've been working there for 2 days right?" I asked, zipping my black warm up jacket in the breeze.

"First of all, it's Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, and, yeah, it's been 2 nights," Mike said.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. You were going to say...?"

"Your mom wanted me to take you to my shift tonight."

"Um, okay, sure." It seemed like he had something more important to say.

"You should know though, don't ever leave the office, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah sure."

"Okay, thanks, Katrina"

"No problem," I turned back into the house, where my mom rushed to me, strands her thin red hair falling out of her tight bun.

"Where have you been? You were supposed to watch the children! One of them hit his head on the coffee table!" Mom grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me.

"Sorry, Ma, Mike had to talk to me about work and stuff."

"You're not getting out of this one, young lady." My mom spun around and called to Mrs. Winston (the poor woman who had to give birth to the little monsters), "Here she is! I found her!"

"Katrina! I can't believe you! You'll be a horrible mother. You can't just leave the children like that! I asked you to watch them for a specific reason..." I tuned out, not wanting to hear the rest of Mrs. Winston's scolding.

I wonder what Mike does at work. He is basically paid to sit in a room for 5 hours, after all. Maybe he brings a game or something like that. I'll probably bring my journal (not diary, journal, I don't write sappy personal stuff in it . . . most of the time).

"Katrina, are you listening?" Mom grabbed my shoulders again.

"Hmm? No."

"Why are you such a difficult child? Couldn't you try being more like Teresa?"

"Ew, no." Teresa is Mrs. Winston's eldest daughter, who is 16, and considered more mature than I, though I'm a year older than her. In my opinion she's as immature as her 5-year-old siblings, and she practically makes anything meant to be polite sound rude, but every adult thinks she's an angel. To put it simply? She's a witch with a capital "B".

"I'll have you know that Teresa is the epitome of polite. Now come on, we're going home, you have school tomorrow," Mom said and started toward the door, after apologizing to Mrs. Winston.

"Nah, really? It's only Sunday, no way I have school tomorrow," I replied sarcastically, following her out the door.

•*•*•

"Uh, Ma?" I asked when we got home.

"What?" she turned, hair spinning around her face, and I could tell she was already irritated.

"Didn't you ask Mike if I could go with him to work tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, he should be here soon," she sighed, "I should have asked him to take you this weekend . . . oh well."

I ran upstairs to my room, grabbed a bag, and shoved a pen and my journal into it. At 11:45, a horn blared outside and I rushed to the front door.

"Bye, Ma!" I called.

Cool, night air greeted me as I opened the door. Mike's old, dented, blue Honda sat out front, clouds of exhaust puffed from behind the car like the puffs of air that floated from my mouth.

"Hey," I said climbing into the passenger seat, thankful for the heat.

"What's in there?" Mike nodded towards my bag.

"Um, just a journal."

"Do you have your phone? Anything remotely noisy?" He seemed kind of paranoid.

"Uh, I brought my phone." I was a little flustered with all the weird questions. "Why anything noisy?"

"The noise . . . it attracts . . . them," Mike whispered, seemingly talking to himself. I noticed small tremors in his face and hands. "Silence your phone," Mike snapped.

"Oh, um, okay," I fumbled for my phone and silenced it.

Mike hit the gas, and, as we sped to the pizzeria, I had a strange feeling that I wasn't going to like Mike's night shift.