One Shots at Freddy's

What You Deserve

"Hello?"

The walls echo back the sound, as if a thousand hushed voices are returning the confused greeting.
As the repeated call of "Hello?" dies down, only a light hum breaks the oppressive silence of the darkness.

"Hello?"

The walls sing their response. The sound ricochets off every surface, magnifying in amplitude until finally, everything fades into quiet.

You take one timid step forward.

It's a daunting move. That single step was loud enough a call for whatever lay hidden in the darkness.

But these are all stupid thoughts. There is nothing but the walls, the silence and the constant hum.

And you. You are here too.

You take another step. Then another. Then another.

The lack of light leaves nothing but a blur in your vision. Shapes form on the ground, but none can be recognized.

You make small hops over them. You cannot afford to trip. Not now, if something was indeed lurking in the shadows.

Every step guides you closer to a wall on your left, which you gratefully lean against as you take your next few strides. The feel of the wallpaper against your fingers promises a sense of direction.

Fingertips brushing against the wall, each step grows more confident and quick. The obstacles on the ground grow more distinguishable than before; you recognize your sister's doll and your brother's unused roller skates.

The paper feels smooth as if it had been coated in butter. Your fingers glide over it as your pace quickens.

Then you stop.

You feel a gap in the paper. A wide gap, thickened in the middle and tapering at the ends as if someone slashed the wall with a knife.

You move your hand down the wall. There were more similar gaps. You count four in total.

Letting out a shaky breath, you continue on your path. Muscle memory, you hoped, would lead you to your destination, before something else was led to you.

The wall lost its smooth texture as you kept walking. More and more of the wallpaper disappeared from under your fingertips, revealing an unpleasantly coarse layer underneath. Your other hand involuntarily grips a flashlight you wish you had.

The constant hum was beginning to make your head feel heavy. Or maybe it's because you didn't sleep a wink last night? Either way, it starts to grow harder to walk.

An overwhelming urge to simply stop in your tracks, curl up into a ball and cry the night away tugged at you. But you can't do that. You know you can't do that.

The floorboards creak with age under the weight of your wary steps. One step... two steps... three steps...

A sharp cry escapes your lips as pain shoots through your bare foot, and you come tumbling down to the floor, hitting your head hard against the ground. You hear the sound of a toy car rolling away from your fallen figure.

Tears fill your eyes. You consider giving in to the tug pulling you down to the ground, forcing you to lie there till morning's light, or death's cold caress. But you can't. You know you can't. So you blink back the tears and push yourself into a sitting position.

The floorboards groan loudly as you pull yourself up, shifting your weight between limbs as you straighten yourself.

They're groaning a little... too loudly...

You stand still, straining your ears.

You can hear it. The creaking of the floorboards, not from underneath, but from elsewhere. Somewhere around you, though you cannot detect where. Beside you? Behind you? You can't tell.

Panic swells up in your chest. A bead of sweat forms on your brow as you desperately whip around. Your frantic attempts to spot any stalker in the dark only deter you from your original path. You lose your sense of direction.

The hum doesn't stop. The creaking doesn't either. Your head begins to throb and tears threaten to tumble out with every trembling sigh that escapes your quivering lips.

You feel a warm blow of air brush against your neck. Then a second. Then a third. It was as if someone, or something, were breathing on you.

A low growl emanates from behind you.

Your joints lock up. Your feet refuse to move from where you stand. You stifle a cry ripping through your dry throat.

Another growl.

You pray that somehow, whatever stood behind you hadn't caught the scent of your presence yet. But you know very well that the praying is futile. That you are doomed, Michael.

You break into a frenzied sprint, down the hallway, as you reclaim your autonomy from the panic. You stumble and fall. You can't get up. You can't move. All you can do is beg me for mercy, Michael. But you can't do that. We both know that you can't do that.

This is how he felt, you know, Michael. This is how your brother felt when you and your little friends tormented him every single day. This is how he felt when you dragged him to his demise.

Why don't I just kill you? Now now, Mikey, I'm not that cruel. Besides, what's the point of that? You wouldn't have suffered enough for what you did to Dave. I'm not going to let you off that easily.

Curse me all you want, Michael. We both know I'm right. We both know you deserve this; to feel the pains of dread and death over and over and over again.

You think I'll pity you? Why, because I'm your father?

Not after what you did to my son.

Now, enough chitchat, else I'll keep the gas vents active for an extra hour.

Their hum drives you insane? How lovely. That's the point.

Good luck tonight. Toodles!