Marcie the Mime: A Silent Story Fazbear Frights

Haunted

Marcie paced her small apartment, the faint glow of the television casting long shadows across the room. The laughter of The Simpsons characters played in the background, but she couldn't focus on it. William Afton's words looped endlessly in her mind.

"Machines don't hum when they're turned off."

She shook her head, trying to dismiss the thought. It was late, she was exhausted, and her mind was probably playing tricks on her. Maybe the hum had been a vibration from the workshop equipment, or an echo of her own overworked imagination. But the logical explanations felt thin, like a flimsy curtain barely covering the unsettling truth.

She turned the TV off, plunging the room into silence. The quiet felt heavier than usual, as though the air itself was thick with tension. She leaned against the counter, running her hands through her hair, grease-streaked fingers tangling with stray strands. Her eyes drifted toward the corner of the room where her work notebook sat on a cluttered desk.

Before she realized it, she had crossed the room and picked it up, flipping through pages of sketches, notes, and diagrams. There were countless ideas she had written down while designing the mime animatronic—Marcie the Mime, as she had affectionately called it. Her notes were meticulous, detailing every movement, every aesthetic choice, every behavior she wanted to program. But now, as she scanned them, something about her own work unsettled her.

Marcie stopped on a page marked with a faint smudge of ink, a hastily scribbled note in the margin that she didn't remember writing.

"Why does she feel real?"

Her stomach churned. The question wasn't part of her usual technical process. It was emotional, personal—a glimpse into her own growing doubts about what she had created. She pressed her fingers against her temples, willing herself to calm down. She had worked herself to exhaustion, that was all. She wasn't thinking clearly. Machines didn't feel. Machines didn't think. Machines didn't hum when they were turned off.

She slammed the notebook shut and set it back on the desk. The sudden noise startled her, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. She needed to sleep. Everything would make sense in the morning.

But as she turned to head to her bedroom, her apartment phone rang again.

Her pulse quickened, and for a moment, she considered letting it go to voicemail. She didn't want to hear his voice again—not tonight. But the ringing persisted, shrill and insistent, until she snatched the receiver.

"Hello?" she said, her voice strained.

There was no reply at first. Just static. Then a faint hum—a soft, mechanical sound that made her blood run cold.

"Hello, Marcie," a voice finally said. But it wasn't William Afton this time. It was something else. The voice was soft, almost childlike, with a metallic undertone that made her skin crawl.

She gripped the receiver tightly. "Who is this?"

"Don't you recognize me?" the voice asked, a hint of sadness in its tone. "You made me, after all."

The phone slipped from her hand, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The static and faint hum continued to leak from the receiver, filling the room like a ghostly presence. Marcie backed away, her heart pounding in her chest.

"This isn't real," she whispered to herself, shaking her head. "I'm imagining this."

But as she stood frozen in place, she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye—something moving. Her gaze snapped toward the shadowy corner of the room, but there was nothing there.

Except... there was. The faintest glint of blue, catching the dim light.

Her breath hitched as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. There, standing half-hidden in the shadows, was the unmistakable figure of her animatronic—Marcie the Mime.