Fazbear Frights #9: The Puppet Carver

Stitchwraith Stingers #9

The ninth Stitchwraith Stingers epilogue.

Larson was bent over his desk writing up a report on a manslaughter he and Roberts had cleared that morning. Roberts wasn't helping at all. He was berating Powell for bringing a Limburger cheese and liverwurst sandwich for lunch. Larson had to admit the smell was pretty bad, but Roberts wasn't being paid to be the scent police.

Larson was nearly done, even without Roberts's help. He was filling in the last section when a folder landed on his desk with an audible slap.

"Heard ya'll were waiting for these here results?"

The heavy drawl lifted Larson's gaze.

One of the new detectives, Chancey—Larson wasn't sure if this was a first or a last name—stood next to Larson's desk. He was tapping one of his cowboy-boot–clad feet on the scuffed floor.

Chancey was an angular guy with a jutting jaw and bony shoulders, dirty-blond hair that hung over his eyes, and a grin that looked even less genuine than his drawl sounded. Chancey had joined the squad while Larson was in the hospital. Larson had heard the guy was just supposed to be a fill-in for Larson while he was gone, but for some reason, Chancey was still here.

"This something I could get in on?" Chancey asked. "Looks hinky to me.

Is it a cold case?"

Larson flipped open the folder and scanned the top page inside. He shook his head. "It's just something I was following up on. I'll let you know if I need your help." He gave Chancey a fake-friendly smile and pushed the folder aside as if it was nothing.

Chancey shrugged and wandered away from the bull pen. Larson opened the folder and studied its contents.

He started frowning as soon as he began reading. What in the world was going on here?

Larson had sent thirty samples to the lab. He'd expected to be told they were blood samples, and he'd expected them to be thirty different blood samples.

He was only half right. The samples were blood, but they weren't different. Well, they were different, but they weren't from different individuals.

The blood samples, according to the report, were from the same person, but they were all from different time periods. This meant someone—the same someone—or the same something, had bled in that pit every year for decades. Huh?

Larson picked up the phone and punched in a number. After a ring, a woman answered in a sing-songy voice.

"Lab, Tabitha here."

"Hey, Tabby. I'm looking at the report you sent over." He tapped the pages in front of him. "Are you telling me that something has been coming in and out of that ball pit for over three decades, and it's been bleeding?"

"It's weird, for sure," Tabby said. "But yeah, the blood is from the same person, but each sample has degraded differently, indicating a different year for each one. You're onto something funky, Larson."

"That's one word for it. Thanks, Tabby."

Larson hung up the phone and leaned back.

Something bigger was going on here, bigger even than having baffling glimpses into the past. He needed to find out more about the building where he'd found the pit. Maybe solving this mystery would lead him back to the Stitchwraith. Strangeness seemed to radiate outward from the freakish thing. Whether the Stitchwraith was evil or not, Larson wanted to find it and get to the bottom of whatever the heck was going on.

Jake pushed through the shed's doorway. He carried a lumpy bundle wrapped up in the folds of his cloak.

Although the previous night's rain had stopped, the sky was still heavy with gray clouds. The sun was trying to break through them, but so far, it