Fazbear Frights #3: 1.35 AM

Stitchwraith Stingers #3

The third Stitchwraith Stingers epilogue.

Larson sat at the elegant oak rolltop desk that dominated one end of his otherwise anything-but-elegant living room. If he sat at the desk, the top of which held an antique green banker's lamp and above which hung a print of an eagle flying over a meadow, his back was to the rest of the room. From here, he could pretend the other part of his living room didn't exist. Everything else in the room—the stained card table, two folding chairs, a ratty easy chair, and a blue vinyl beanbag chair—only made the place seem more empty and sad.

Taking a sip from the glass he held balanced against his chest, he looked at the framed picture of Ryan that the banker's lamp illuminated. Ryan had been six when the picture was taken. He'd just lost his front two baby teeth.

The resulting gap gave his freckled, blue-eyed face an impish look Larson loved. People said Ryan was the spitting image of his dad. Larson guessed he saw it. For sure he and his son shared dirty blond hair, freckles, blue eyes, and a wide mouth. Ryan had gotten his mom's nose, which was good for Ryan. But sometimes, all Larson saw when he looked at his son were the differences between them. To Larson, his own face looked hard and closed, while Ryan's was still eager and open.

How long would it stay that way?

A few days before, Larson had gotten a glimpse of what Ryan would look like when the possibilities of childhood collapsed into the obligations of adulthood. Larson had promised, swearing on a stack of comic books no less, that he'd take Ryan to see a movie premiere. Work had gotten in the way, and Larson had canceled. Ryan hadn't taken it well.

"You don't do anything you say you'll do!" Ryan had screamed. His face was red and contorted with crushing disappointment.

"I'm sorry, Ryan."

Ryan had sniffled. "Teacher says dads are like superheroes. But you're not. Superheroes don't break promises."

Larson's phone rang, and he snatched it up. Anything that could save him from the memory of his many regrets would be welcome.

"The Stitch Wraith was spotted again," Chief Monahan rasped. "I want you to get over there."

"Where?"

"The old fire site ... you remember that bizarre fire?"

"Sure." Larson set down his drink, glad he'd only had a couple sips. "I'll be there in ten." He stood. "Wait. Isn't that the second time it's been spotted there?"

Don pulled open the heavy metal door of the old ex-factory, and he and Frank headed to the food truck parked in the middle of what used to be one of the defunct factory's assembly rooms. The truck, no longer mobile, was permanently placed in the room, and it was surrounded by wood picnic tables. It was a weird setup, but then, Dr. Phineas Taggart, the man who owned it all, was weird, too.

Don spotted Phineas sitting on one of the picnic table benches, and he nudged Frank. They watched Phineas carefully pull the tail of his pristine white lab coat out from under him and smooth it, then just as carefully spread a white linen napkin on the rough table in front of him. He flicked a speck of dirt from the napkin's corner, then opened his sandwich wrapper in the precise center of the napkin.

"Thank you," Phineas said to the sandwich. "Cells, please process this food with love."

"Still talking to your food, Phineas?" Don called. He rolled his eyes and winked at Frank.

Frank just shook his head.

They watched Phineas close his eyes. It looked like he was praying, but he'd once told them he was creating a "mental shield out of light" when he did that. Whatever that meant.