Five Nights At Freddy's

Chapter Two: New in Town

It was evident that the light grey and pot-holed road had not been improved for some time.  Power lines draped themselves across the cold sky, as the dead, browning arms of thin trees attempted to entangle themselves dangerously within them.  Mike turned up the local news on his radio in an attempt to drown out the eerie feeling he felt rounding each block of towering, industrial cement.  Black windows hid secrets behind thin layers of dust and dirt form the badly paved sidewalks where not a single child sat playing.  Night had fallen fairly early, a sign that winter was on it's way, and deep, purple shadows were blanketing the town in a shady mist.  Mike swallowed, trying to listen to the talk radio. He couldn't shake the thought of those five kids... just disappearing... how?
...this morning, two bodies were pulled from the lake just outside Murray Park...
...Price High won their homecoming game in memory of beloved...
...town meeting to discuss increased crime rates...

Mike changed the station, trying to shake his head clear of worries.  He landed at last on the eighties rock station, sinking deeper into his seat, trying not to think of the notepad in his suitcase, burning a hole through his very soul.  Five kids, he thought miserably, five kids just up and disappear and then ten years go by.  What kind of world do we live in? Who could have done this? And why?
If I could turn the page in time then I'd rearrange just a day or two close my, the radio sang, close my, close my eyes...

There was a motel just off the outskirts of town, shady enough where a New York Yankee could get enough privacy from prying eyes that may wonder what exactly he was up to.  Mike pulled into the parking lot carefully, the night chill wrapping around him tightly.  He shivered, opening the back door to retrieve his suitcase.  Not a soul stirred in the neon lights as he made his way up the cement steps to the smudged glass doors.  The man at the front desk didn't look up from his newspaper; for a moment Mike froze, worried he may recognize his name as it was staring at him from the black and white newsprint. 
"Name?" The old man asked from behind his cigarette, his under bite keeping the tobacco filled roll in place.  Mike choked. 
"Schmidt," he informed.  The old man wheezed through his nose, picking up a set of rusty keys to place them on the sticky granite before him, his eyes not leaving the paper.  Mike grabbed them hastily, peering at the newspaper closer.  The man wasn't reading the paper, he was reading a raunchy magazine hidden behind it.  Mike could see the outline in the light shining through the thin wood pulp.  He relaxed.  "Enjoy your evening." 
"Mmm," the man replied as Mike picked up his suitcase, resuming his way to room 105 down the hall to his left. 

The room was tight.  One queen sized bed sat against the right wall while the left was taken up by an old bunny eared TV and an empty desk.  Across from the door was a small wardrobe, empty except for a dirty towel.  Behind that wall was a small bathroom consisting of a toilet, a metal sink, and a moldy shower.  Mike sighed, putting his suitcase on the one star comforter.  A white, plastic phone sat on the nightstand to the right of the bed while a dingy lamp sat on the other side.  He peeled back the blankets, spying a black cigarette burn on the yellowing sheets.  He shuddered.  It'd have to do, this was the last night's sleep he'd get for a while.  He took a few steps on the crunchy carpet, dusty from years of overlooked cleaning.  He sat on the bed carefully, kicking his shoes off and staring at the speckled ceiling.  He felt his eyes flutter shut before they jolted open again to the sound of the bed upstairs squeaking furiously.  He groaned, covering his eyes as the thin ceiling allowed him to hear more of the couple upstairs than he wanted to.  He jumped as the phone rang, answering it grumpily. 
"Hello?" 
"Ah!  Mike, you made it." The anonymous tip's voice greeted, "is the motel to your liking?" 
"No."
"It'll have to do," the man sighed, "I trust you set up an interview with Mr. Iris already?" 
"He hired me on the spot." 
"Good," the man said, "get some rest.  I'll call you Tuesday morning after your shift."  With that, he hung up.  Mike glared at the phone, slamming it down angrily.  He didn't even bother to change into his pajamas as he drifted off to sleep. 

The next morning came crashing in through the blinds.  Mike squinted in the sunlight, his alarm beeping to a pitch that was causing his head to throb.  He groaned, slamming his hand down on the off button with his pent up frustration.  He sat up and rubbed his eyes, yawning as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and trudged to the bathroom.  He examined himself in the mirror, eying his cleanly shaven face and brown eyes that shone from his tan skin in the florescent lights above the glass.  He combed his black hair back and removed his t-shirt, replacing it with a crisp, white button down from work and a black tie.  He concluded from the desperation in Mr. Iris's voice that he wouldn't care what he showed up wearing, as long as he showed up. 

It had apparently rained during the night, the cement steps leading out the front door were slick and reeked of washed up motor oil.  In the daylight, Mike could truly comprehend just how rundown the town was, much of the shadow and soot he saw now he'd classified as nighttime shadow when he arrived.  Looking around, he could now see that the town really was that dingy.  He glanced up at the shoes hanging over the power lines and the birds nests long abandoned in the corners of the patio awning above him.  He furrowed his brow.  Well, he thought, at least I'm used to city grime... this is just a slightly less congested sort of grime I suppose.  He noted however that this was no place for children, let alone a restaurant catering to children.  He looked around him as he crossed the parking lot to his car, moving cautiously.  He paused, noticing a small package on his window shield.  He hesitated, moving toward his car slowly.  He eyed the message written in soggy sharpie: You'll need this, Yankee  -Anonymous.  He opened the package carefully, the smell of coffee wafting out from it's contents.  He withdrew the bag with a small chuckle, seeing the damp, aluminum pouch containing ground coffee shining in the morning sun.  The thought was appreciated, the smell itself seemed to invigorate him with a new found hope as he jumped inside his car, making his way toward what felt like a trap.