.•°That's 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 sketchy°•. 𝐹𝓃𝒶𝐹 𝒮𝐵

:: 𝘔. 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘰𝘯? ::

a/n: 

i just got into two new fandoms (the mandela catalogue and the macabre experiment) :1 and currently brainrotting (i love analog horror)

anyways, here's another chapter for ya guys, love ya <3 i randomly wanted to write some chapter here bc of my 100+ notifications coming from the comments and likes of this story :')

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-s p e c i a l  c h a p t e r -

"First day on the job? You seem kind of shaky, no offense."

"Yeah..."

"I'm sure you'll fit in soon! Every new employee here at F- I mean, the pizzaplex always acts like that. I'm kinda used to it."

"Yeah, okay.."

--

I sat down the front porch of our house, looking far away into the sky. Our house was pretty big, having four rooms and a nice living room. I remember moving in here when I was little, since I didn't grow up here. Actually, having four rooms is too much because we were only three people living in this house. My mom, dad and me. Sometimes my grandparents come here though. The other rooms are just empty, though the old belongings of the people who once lived here stayed.

Sometimes I wander around the old, barren rooms and discover new stuff. Some of the things I recently discovered are a bunch of dirty old stuff toys from the old Freddy Fazbear's, a rusty Foxy mask, rotten candies and a diary. I've been thinking if I should open the diary or not, since I would respect the old owner of the notebook but my hands are just really stubborn.

I slept in the blue bedroom, between the halls of our house. The room gave me creeps though, especially the closet. Whenever I open it I fell like something's going to come out... I try my best to get used to it because if I don't, I'm the one who'll suffer anyway.

Well, one day, I opened the diary. Two words were written crudely on the first page of the notebook, along with really old dried up tear stains. The words were;

Michael Afton.

"Who the fuck is Michael Afton?"

My mind clearly went blank. Did he live here once? I don't know, but the year of the first written day on the notebook was 1983. Wow, that's a really old diary. But then I realized, the name written had my last name. 

Out of curiousness, I flipped to the next page. The words on the other page were aggressively written, and the ink was blotted. I couldn't read the words clearly because of the reckless scribbles on the page. I shrugged to myself and turned to the next page, hoping for something other than scribbles.

The next page was more interesting, to my surprise. There were only a little amount of red scribbles and a bunch of "I'm sorry" and "Please forgive me"s were scrawled on the page, despite the fact that the handwriting looked neat and readable. 

While I was about to turn to the next page, a loud sound suddenly rang in my ears. The police? Nah, probably just the lawn mower. My dad's- oh, wait. My dad's dead. Haha.

I started walking back into the house. Am I actually talking to myself right now? Yep. It's so confusing. A while ago I was chatting to myself about that stupid creepy diary. Damn it, I think that kid and that fucking restaurant left an impact on my brain. I was just 12. 

Yeah, I'm mentally unstable.

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HIHIDIASDAHFKAHKDKSJDHKJDH THIS IS SO DUMB JSJKADJKJSJKSDJ