A collection of one-shots based on various story ideas and alternate universes for the world of Five Nights at Freddy´s, and the big and small impacts of those changes. Most involve the Aftons in some way or form. Includes Mrs Afton being the woman behind the slaughter, The parents of the missing children teaming up to kick Williams's ass, Phone Guy becoming a dad to a group of ghost kids, and the most unlikely scenario! William becoming a good person.
Many Nights at Freddy's (A One Shot Collection)
- Thread starter Martin Noctis
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User Total Martin Noctis 5
A Different Shade of Purple AKA What if somebody else became The Purple Guy?
- Pronouns
- He
Michael was late William noticed. He always came to Fredbears right after school with his friends right behind him. But today he was late. William would usually not notice after all he had more important things to focus on but Henry mentioned it so it got Williams's attention.
"He is probably with some girl Hen," William told Henry even though he didn't exactly believe it. If Michael was dating someone Jennifer would tell him. Unless she didn't notice she was the music teacher at their son´s school so she would.
Ignoring the weird feeling he decided to go for a smoke break. He would wait for Michael while outside.
He lit a cigarette, the nicotine momentarily soothing his nerves. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot as William scanned the area for any sign of his son.
Nothing. No sign of him. By his fourth cigarette, William decided to drive down to Michael's school and find out what the hell happened.
A faint sound caught William's attention—a distant, muffled cry, barely audible over the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Instinct propelled him forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He moved swiftly toward the source, his mind screaming at him to run. And so he did.
Around the corner of the building, hidden from the diner's cheery facade, William stumbled upon a scene that shattered his world. Michael, his little boy, lay sprawled on the ground, his school bag discarded nearby.
There was so much blood.
Panic seized William as he dropped to his knees beside his son, a primal roar escaping his lips.
Michael wasn't breathing.
His little boy was dead. The stab wounds were all over his body.
William didn't even realize that he wasn't alone. One of the employees must have heard his scream and was asking him what had happened. William just glared at him.
"Call an ambulance," he finally managed to spit out, his voice a mix of rage and despair. The employee backed away before running to the dinner´s landline or to get Henry. William didn't care. His son was dead.
The next few hours were a blur. The police arrived, taking statements and trying to piece together what had happened. William watched them numbly, the reality of his son's death sinking in like a heavy weight on his chest.
Henry tried to comfort him, but William pushed him away. He didn't want comfort.
Someone had taken Michael from him—someone who would pay dearly for their crime. As the rain began to fall, washing away the traces of blood and tears, William Afton vowed vengeance.
Author Notes:
This story would obviously be a murder mystery following William and the Aftons as they hunt down Michaels's killer. Michael's death of course prevents the Bite of 83 and makes the timeline diverge even more but to be clear: Michael won´t be the only victim. Also, I always saw William as a psychopath who pretended to be a normal guy whose son's death released the monster beneath the man. This time though he won´t target kids
"He is probably with some girl Hen," William told Henry even though he didn't exactly believe it. If Michael was dating someone Jennifer would tell him. Unless she didn't notice she was the music teacher at their son´s school so she would.
Ignoring the weird feeling he decided to go for a smoke break. He would wait for Michael while outside.
He lit a cigarette, the nicotine momentarily soothing his nerves. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot as William scanned the area for any sign of his son.
Nothing. No sign of him. By his fourth cigarette, William decided to drive down to Michael's school and find out what the hell happened.
A faint sound caught William's attention—a distant, muffled cry, barely audible over the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Instinct propelled him forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He moved swiftly toward the source, his mind screaming at him to run. And so he did.
Around the corner of the building, hidden from the diner's cheery facade, William stumbled upon a scene that shattered his world. Michael, his little boy, lay sprawled on the ground, his school bag discarded nearby.
There was so much blood.
Panic seized William as he dropped to his knees beside his son, a primal roar escaping his lips.
Michael wasn't breathing.
His little boy was dead. The stab wounds were all over his body.
William didn't even realize that he wasn't alone. One of the employees must have heard his scream and was asking him what had happened. William just glared at him.
"Call an ambulance," he finally managed to spit out, his voice a mix of rage and despair. The employee backed away before running to the dinner´s landline or to get Henry. William didn't care. His son was dead.
The next few hours were a blur. The police arrived, taking statements and trying to piece together what had happened. William watched them numbly, the reality of his son's death sinking in like a heavy weight on his chest.
Henry tried to comfort him, but William pushed him away. He didn't want comfort.
Someone had taken Michael from him—someone who would pay dearly for their crime. As the rain began to fall, washing away the traces of blood and tears, William Afton vowed vengeance.
Author Notes:
This story would obviously be a murder mystery following William and the Aftons as they hunt down Michaels's killer. Michael's death of course prevents the Bite of 83 and makes the timeline diverge even more but to be clear: Michael won´t be the only victim. Also, I always saw William as a psychopath who pretended to be a normal guy whose son's death released the monster beneath the man. This time though he won´t target kids
cool
The Doom That Came To Hurricane
- Pronouns
- He
William mourns and meets a new friend. 
William was doing what he did best—drinking his worries away. The sharp burn of the whiskey did little to dull the ache that pulsed in his chest. He should have gone to see Henry. The man had always known how to keep William grounded, even when everything around him was falling apart. But Clara had taken his keys. She had pleaded with him, voice trembling, "I don't want to lose you too."
Her words echoed in his head, hollow and meaningless in the haze of alcohol. What did it matter anymore? Evan was gone. His youngest. His baby. Nothing could change that.
The dim light of the workshop flickered overhead, casting shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around the room. On the workbench, the Spring Bonnie suit lay slumped over, half-forgotten. A grotesque reminder of what had been lost. The yellow fur, once vibrant and pristine, was now streaked with dark, drying stains. Blood. Evan's blood.
William stared at the suit, the flicker of the light catching on the metal skeleton beneath, half-hidden behind the mask. The faceplate, splattered in red, looked almost human in the dark. His stomach twisted, but not from grief—no, that had passed. What remained was something more primal, more vicious.
"All of this," he muttered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, "because I couldn't protect him."
But had it been his fault? Or had it been something else—something lurking beneath the surface of this cursed town, pulling the strings all along?
He took another swig, the glass clinking softly as he set it down next to the scattered blueprints of his animatronics. His gaze drifted back to the Spring Bonnie suit, lingering on the blank eyes of the mask. For a moment, he thought he saw something. A flicker of movement, a twitch.
The light overhead buzzed and dimmed. The room grew colder.
William blinked, his vision blurring. Had the whiskey hit him that hard already? He rubbed his eyes, but when he looked again, the suit had changed.
The blank, lifeless eyes of the mask seemed to gleam, reflecting an unnatural light that wasn't coming from the workshop. The mouth, frozen in a permanent grin, seemed wider now, as if the thing was smiling at him.
"You're seeing things, old man," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.
But the feeling didn't go away. The air grew thick, oppressive, and with it came a faint sound—so soft at first, it could have been mistaken for the hum of machinery. But it grew, steadily, rising in pitch until it formed something almost recognizable. A melody. A song.
The voice was cold, distant, but familiar in a way that sent chills down William's spine.
"Six little souls in exchange for one little kit to come home..."
William froze, the whiskey glass slipping from his hand and shattering against the concrete floor. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat reverberating in his skull. The voice—it was coming from the suit.
The Spring Bonnie suit slowly, agonizingly, began to move.
At first, it was subtle. A shift in its posture, the slightest creak of metal as it raised its head. Then its limbs twitched—unnaturally, as though guided by invisible strings. The half-smeared blood on its face seemed to pulse, the stain spreading like tendrils of darkness.
The thing sat up fully, its head tilting to one side, its hollow eyes locked on William.
"Six little souls in exchange for one little kit to come home..."
The melody repeated, like a lullaby twisted into something foul. The grin on its face grew wider, stretching impossibly far, until it seemed as though the suit itself might tear apart from the pressure.
William's mouth went dry. His pulse throbbed in his temples, but he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't scream.
The Abomination—because that's what it was—stood up slowly, its movements jerky, unnatural, like a puppet being pulled by some unseen hand. And yet, it was in complete control. It took a step forward, its feet dragging slightly as it moved closer to William, that eternal grin fixed in place.
"You want him back, don't you?"
The voice was inside his head now, echoing through his thoughts, scratching at the edges of his mind. It wasn't human. It wasn't even close.
"I can give him back to you... your precious boy. You only have to do one thing, Daddy Bunny."
The nickname—spoken with such casual malice—ripped something open inside William. It wasn't just mocking him. It was claiming him.
He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The Abomination tilted its head further, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the room.
"Six little souls. That's all it takes."
It was laughing now, soft and cruel, as it took another step closer. The air around William felt thick, suffocating, like he was drowning without water. The workshop seemed to bend, the walls warping and distorting as the creature's presence grew more oppressive.
"I can bring him back, William."
The sound of his name—so personal, so intimate—sent a shiver down his spine. He looked into the eyes of the thing in front of him, and for the first time in years, William felt true fear.
"Six souls," the Abomination repeated, each word dripping with dark promise. "Six little souls, in exchange for one little kit."
William's mind raced. Six souls. Six children. The pieces fell into place, and with them came a sickening understanding of what was being offered. He could have his son back—his beloved Evan—but at a price he had never imagined.
"What will the Daddy Bunny do?"
The Abomination was so close now that William could feel its cold breath, the stench of decay and something far older than death itself. It leaned in, its twisted smile inches from his face.
"Will you bring him home?"
The words hung in the air, a challenge, a curse, and a promise all at once.
Authors Note:
Yeah this would be a Lovecraftian spin on FNAF... I think you know Williams Answer
William was doing what he did best—drinking his worries away. The sharp burn of the whiskey did little to dull the ache that pulsed in his chest. He should have gone to see Henry. The man had always known how to keep William grounded, even when everything around him was falling apart. But Clara had taken his keys. She had pleaded with him, voice trembling, "I don't want to lose you too."
Her words echoed in his head, hollow and meaningless in the haze of alcohol. What did it matter anymore? Evan was gone. His youngest. His baby. Nothing could change that.
The dim light of the workshop flickered overhead, casting shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around the room. On the workbench, the Spring Bonnie suit lay slumped over, half-forgotten. A grotesque reminder of what had been lost. The yellow fur, once vibrant and pristine, was now streaked with dark, drying stains. Blood. Evan's blood.
William stared at the suit, the flicker of the light catching on the metal skeleton beneath, half-hidden behind the mask. The faceplate, splattered in red, looked almost human in the dark. His stomach twisted, but not from grief—no, that had passed. What remained was something more primal, more vicious.
"All of this," he muttered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, "because I couldn't protect him."
But had it been his fault? Or had it been something else—something lurking beneath the surface of this cursed town, pulling the strings all along?
He took another swig, the glass clinking softly as he set it down next to the scattered blueprints of his animatronics. His gaze drifted back to the Spring Bonnie suit, lingering on the blank eyes of the mask. For a moment, he thought he saw something. A flicker of movement, a twitch.
The light overhead buzzed and dimmed. The room grew colder.
William blinked, his vision blurring. Had the whiskey hit him that hard already? He rubbed his eyes, but when he looked again, the suit had changed.
The blank, lifeless eyes of the mask seemed to gleam, reflecting an unnatural light that wasn't coming from the workshop. The mouth, frozen in a permanent grin, seemed wider now, as if the thing was smiling at him.
"You're seeing things, old man," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.
But the feeling didn't go away. The air grew thick, oppressive, and with it came a faint sound—so soft at first, it could have been mistaken for the hum of machinery. But it grew, steadily, rising in pitch until it formed something almost recognizable. A melody. A song.
The voice was cold, distant, but familiar in a way that sent chills down William's spine.
"Six little souls in exchange for one little kit to come home..."
William froze, the whiskey glass slipping from his hand and shattering against the concrete floor. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat reverberating in his skull. The voice—it was coming from the suit.
The Spring Bonnie suit slowly, agonizingly, began to move.
At first, it was subtle. A shift in its posture, the slightest creak of metal as it raised its head. Then its limbs twitched—unnaturally, as though guided by invisible strings. The half-smeared blood on its face seemed to pulse, the stain spreading like tendrils of darkness.
The thing sat up fully, its head tilting to one side, its hollow eyes locked on William.
"Six little souls in exchange for one little kit to come home..."
The melody repeated, like a lullaby twisted into something foul. The grin on its face grew wider, stretching impossibly far, until it seemed as though the suit itself might tear apart from the pressure.
William's mouth went dry. His pulse throbbed in his temples, but he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't scream.
The Abomination—because that's what it was—stood up slowly, its movements jerky, unnatural, like a puppet being pulled by some unseen hand. And yet, it was in complete control. It took a step forward, its feet dragging slightly as it moved closer to William, that eternal grin fixed in place.
"You want him back, don't you?"
The voice was inside his head now, echoing through his thoughts, scratching at the edges of his mind. It wasn't human. It wasn't even close.
"I can give him back to you... your precious boy. You only have to do one thing, Daddy Bunny."
The nickname—spoken with such casual malice—ripped something open inside William. It wasn't just mocking him. It was claiming him.
He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The Abomination tilted its head further, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the room.
"Six little souls. That's all it takes."
It was laughing now, soft and cruel, as it took another step closer. The air around William felt thick, suffocating, like he was drowning without water. The workshop seemed to bend, the walls warping and distorting as the creature's presence grew more oppressive.
"I can bring him back, William."
The sound of his name—so personal, so intimate—sent a shiver down his spine. He looked into the eyes of the thing in front of him, and for the first time in years, William felt true fear.
"Six souls," the Abomination repeated, each word dripping with dark promise. "Six little souls, in exchange for one little kit."
William's mind raced. Six souls. Six children. The pieces fell into place, and with them came a sickening understanding of what was being offered. He could have his son back—his beloved Evan—but at a price he had never imagined.
"What will the Daddy Bunny do?"
The Abomination was so close now that William could feel its cold breath, the stench of decay and something far older than death itself. It leaned in, its twisted smile inches from his face.
"Will you bring him home?"
The words hung in the air, a challenge, a curse, and a promise all at once.
Authors Note:
Yeah this would be a Lovecraftian spin on FNAF... I think you know Williams Answer
Last edited:
cool
- Pronouns
- He
Hope you enjoyed we might visit this one again later
Two Mikes on Nightshift
- Pronouns
- He
Two Mikes on Nightshift AKA Movie Mike and Game Mike coexist in the same universe and try to survive a nightshift at Freddy´s
The pizzeria was already weird, but having two night guards at Freddy's? That was new. The office smelled like stale pizza and despair, and the dimly flickering light didn't help. Mike Schmidt was sitting in the security chair, hands shaking as he flipped through the survival guide they'd been handed at orientation. Not that it was much of a guide—it mostly just said, "Don't die," and "Watch the cameras."
Across the room, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, was the other Mike.
Michael Afton.
The guy looked like he'd just come out of a car accident—sunken eyes, grayish skin, and a thousand-yard stare that unnerved Schmidt more than he cared to admit.
"So, uh, you've done this before?" Schmidt asked, trying to break the tension. The place was bad enough without sitting in awkward silence with a walking corpse.
Afton shrugged, eyes lazily scanning the dimly lit hallway beyond the office. "Once. Different location. Same animatronics."
Schmidt blinked. "Same animatronics? What—like, they just pack these things up and move them to a different murder-pizzeria?"
Afton shot him a glance. "Pretty much."
"Well, that's comforting," Schmidt muttered, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this job. He had a nice, quiet life before this. Sort of. A little too quiet, honestly. That's why he'd taken the job: something exciting. The irony was not lost on him.
"So… uh, I'm supposed to check the cameras, right?" Schmidt reached for the console, his finger hovering over the buttons. "Just, uh, make sure they stay in their places?"
Afton nodded but didn't bother looking over. "They won't."
"They won't?" Schmidt's voice cracked. "Dude, you're way too calm about this."
Afton finally looked at him, one brow raised. "Look, the sooner you accept the fact that those animatronics want to stuff you into a suit, the easier this job gets."
Schmidt just stared. "Easier?"
"Yeah," Afton said with a casual wave. "You panic too much, you get sloppy. Trust me, you don't want to be sloppy here."
Schmidt slumped in his chair. "Oh, great. Just great. And how are you so chill about all this? You're telling me murderous robots don't freak you out?"
Afton shrugged again. "I've been through worse."
"Worse than this?"
"Yeah. Let's just say there's a lot of things about me you don't want to know." Afton's tone was casual, but there was something in his eyes—something dark. Schmidt decided not to press further.
There was a long pause before Schmidt tried to fill the silence again. "So, you got family?"
Afton's eyes flickered for just a second, something hard flashing behind them. "A sister. Vanessa. She's... yeah, she's around."
"Sounds nice," Schmidt said, trying to be friendly. "I've got a sister too. Abby. She's just a kid, but she's tough. Honestly, she could probably handle this place better than me."
At the mention of his sister, Afton's expression shifted. His posture stiffened slightly, and he turned his head just enough to avoid Schmidt's gaze. "Don't bring her here. Ever."
Schmidt's smile faltered. "What?"
Afton's tone was suddenly sharper, more direct. "Don't bring Abby here. Not during the day. Not ever."
Schmidt blinked, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Uh… yeah, okay, man. Chill. I wasn't planning on it."
Afton nodded slowly but didn't elaborate. There was something in his expression, something almost like fear—but not the kind Schmidt had ever seen before. It was deep, almost primal.
"Anyway," Afton said, the tension dropping just as suddenly as it had appeared, "let's get to work."
Schmidt stared at him for a moment longer, then turned back to the cameras. He cycled through the various feeds—empty hallways, party rooms full of dusty tables, the stage where Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica stood in their default positions. No movement. Yet.
"Okay, everything looks clear," Schmidt said, his voice wavering slightly. "So… when do they start trying to kill us?"
Afton glanced at the clock on the wall. "Soon."
Schmidt groaned. "This is so messed up, man."
Suddenly, the static-filled sound of dum-dum-de-dum drifted through the office.
Schmidt's eyes widened. "What the hell was that?"
Afton didn't even flinch. "That's Foxy. Pirate Cove. He's just warming up."
"Warming up? Warming up for what?"
Afton didn't bother answering. Instead, he casually stepped over to the monitor and hit the camera for Pirate Cove. Sure enough, the curtain was slightly ajar, and just beyond it, the faint outline of a robotic fox could be seen peeking through.
"See? Foxy likes to run," Afton said, completely nonchalant. "He'll charge at you when he's ready. Just close the door before he gets there."
Schmidt's jaw dropped. "You're not serious."
Afton didn't even look up from the camera. "Dead serious. He's fast, too."
As if on cue, the sound of metallic footsteps echoed faintly through the hallway. Schmidt's heart leapt into his throat. He fumbled for the door button, slamming it shut just as Foxy's hook scraped against the steel.
Afton didn't flinch, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed. "Told you."
Schmidt's heart was racing. "What the hell, man! You weren't even going to warn me?"
Afton shrugged. "I did. You panicked. Get used to it."
Schmidt slumped in his chair, panting. "This is going to be a long night."
Hours into the shift, Schmidt's tension had reached a boiling point. His nerves were shot, his adrenaline drained, and yet Afton still leaned against the desk like they were in a waiting room, not a deathtrap.
"So… Vanessa, huh?" Schmidt ventured, mostly to distract himself from the fact that Bonnie had just moved two rooms closer. "You and her get along?"
Afton snorted. "Define 'get along.'"
"Well, you know, normal sibling stuff. Do you guys hang out?"
Afton's eyes darkened for a second. "Nope. She hates my guts."
"Oh." Schmidt was taken aback by the bluntness. "That's… harsh."
Afton didn't elaborate, his focus drifting back to the screen where Bonnie loomed in the West Hall.
"So, what's the story there?" Schmidt asked. "Family drama?"
Afton finally looked at him, his expression deadpan. "I killed our brother."
Schmidt blinked. "Wait. What?"
Afton held the silence just long enough for Schmidt's face to pale before he cracked a small, crooked grin. "Kidding. Mostly."
"Dude, what?" Schmidt was too tired to fully process the comment.
Afton shrugged. "We've got history. It's complicated."
"Right. Complicated." Schmidt rubbed his eyes. "Man, I thought my family was bad."
"You don't know the half of it," Afton muttered under his breath, barely audible.
Suddenly, a burst of static came through the monitor. Freddy's head twitched on the screen, his dead eyes locking onto the camera. Schmidt stiffened.
"Why is he looking at us?" Schmidt's voice quivered. "He's not supposed to be moving yet."
Afton, still nonchalant, glanced at the camera. "He's just sizing us up."
"SIZING US UP?"
"Relax," Afton said. "He won't come for us until later."
"How do you know that?"
"I've met him before."
Schmidt was about to ask what that even meant when a high-pitched giggle echoed through the empty halls. It was a child's laugh, sweet and innocent, but in the dead of night, it chilled Schmidt to the bone.
"What… the hell was that?" Schmidt's voice trembled.
Afton's casual demeanor evaporated in an instant. His entire body went rigid, his face paler than usual—if that was even possible.
Schmidt noticed the change. "Wait… you're scared? You're scared of something?"
Afton didn't respond. He just stared down the hall, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"Afton? What the hell was that?"
Without looking at Schmidt, Afton muttered, "Just close the door."
Schmidt was too freaked out to argue. He slammed the door shut, his hands shaking.
The giggle echoed again, but this time, it was farther away. Afton exhaled slowly, his grip on the desk loosening.
"What the hell was that?" Schmidt repeated his voice barely a whisper.
Afton straightened up, his face unreadable. "You don't want to know."
Schmidt stared at him. "You can't just—"
"I said, you don't want to know," Afton snapped, his eyes still scanning the hallway.
For the first time all night, Schmidt saw genuine fear in Afton's eyes. And that scared him more than any animatronic could.
AN: This would be a buddy cop retelling of FNAF 1 with both Mikes being around. Movie Mike might be a little ooc.
The pizzeria was already weird, but having two night guards at Freddy's? That was new. The office smelled like stale pizza and despair, and the dimly flickering light didn't help. Mike Schmidt was sitting in the security chair, hands shaking as he flipped through the survival guide they'd been handed at orientation. Not that it was much of a guide—it mostly just said, "Don't die," and "Watch the cameras."
Across the room, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, was the other Mike.
Michael Afton.
The guy looked like he'd just come out of a car accident—sunken eyes, grayish skin, and a thousand-yard stare that unnerved Schmidt more than he cared to admit.
"So, uh, you've done this before?" Schmidt asked, trying to break the tension. The place was bad enough without sitting in awkward silence with a walking corpse.
Afton shrugged, eyes lazily scanning the dimly lit hallway beyond the office. "Once. Different location. Same animatronics."
Schmidt blinked. "Same animatronics? What—like, they just pack these things up and move them to a different murder-pizzeria?"
Afton shot him a glance. "Pretty much."
"Well, that's comforting," Schmidt muttered, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this job. He had a nice, quiet life before this. Sort of. A little too quiet, honestly. That's why he'd taken the job: something exciting. The irony was not lost on him.
"So… uh, I'm supposed to check the cameras, right?" Schmidt reached for the console, his finger hovering over the buttons. "Just, uh, make sure they stay in their places?"
Afton nodded but didn't bother looking over. "They won't."
"They won't?" Schmidt's voice cracked. "Dude, you're way too calm about this."
Afton finally looked at him, one brow raised. "Look, the sooner you accept the fact that those animatronics want to stuff you into a suit, the easier this job gets."
Schmidt just stared. "Easier?"
"Yeah," Afton said with a casual wave. "You panic too much, you get sloppy. Trust me, you don't want to be sloppy here."
Schmidt slumped in his chair. "Oh, great. Just great. And how are you so chill about all this? You're telling me murderous robots don't freak you out?"
Afton shrugged again. "I've been through worse."
"Worse than this?"
"Yeah. Let's just say there's a lot of things about me you don't want to know." Afton's tone was casual, but there was something in his eyes—something dark. Schmidt decided not to press further.
There was a long pause before Schmidt tried to fill the silence again. "So, you got family?"
Afton's eyes flickered for just a second, something hard flashing behind them. "A sister. Vanessa. She's... yeah, she's around."
"Sounds nice," Schmidt said, trying to be friendly. "I've got a sister too. Abby. She's just a kid, but she's tough. Honestly, she could probably handle this place better than me."
At the mention of his sister, Afton's expression shifted. His posture stiffened slightly, and he turned his head just enough to avoid Schmidt's gaze. "Don't bring her here. Ever."
Schmidt's smile faltered. "What?"
Afton's tone was suddenly sharper, more direct. "Don't bring Abby here. Not during the day. Not ever."
Schmidt blinked, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Uh… yeah, okay, man. Chill. I wasn't planning on it."
Afton nodded slowly but didn't elaborate. There was something in his expression, something almost like fear—but not the kind Schmidt had ever seen before. It was deep, almost primal.
"Anyway," Afton said, the tension dropping just as suddenly as it had appeared, "let's get to work."
Schmidt stared at him for a moment longer, then turned back to the cameras. He cycled through the various feeds—empty hallways, party rooms full of dusty tables, the stage where Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica stood in their default positions. No movement. Yet.
"Okay, everything looks clear," Schmidt said, his voice wavering slightly. "So… when do they start trying to kill us?"
Afton glanced at the clock on the wall. "Soon."
Schmidt groaned. "This is so messed up, man."
Suddenly, the static-filled sound of dum-dum-de-dum drifted through the office.
Schmidt's eyes widened. "What the hell was that?"
Afton didn't even flinch. "That's Foxy. Pirate Cove. He's just warming up."
"Warming up? Warming up for what?"
Afton didn't bother answering. Instead, he casually stepped over to the monitor and hit the camera for Pirate Cove. Sure enough, the curtain was slightly ajar, and just beyond it, the faint outline of a robotic fox could be seen peeking through.
"See? Foxy likes to run," Afton said, completely nonchalant. "He'll charge at you when he's ready. Just close the door before he gets there."
Schmidt's jaw dropped. "You're not serious."
Afton didn't even look up from the camera. "Dead serious. He's fast, too."
As if on cue, the sound of metallic footsteps echoed faintly through the hallway. Schmidt's heart leapt into his throat. He fumbled for the door button, slamming it shut just as Foxy's hook scraped against the steel.
Afton didn't flinch, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed. "Told you."
Schmidt's heart was racing. "What the hell, man! You weren't even going to warn me?"
Afton shrugged. "I did. You panicked. Get used to it."
Schmidt slumped in his chair, panting. "This is going to be a long night."
Hours into the shift, Schmidt's tension had reached a boiling point. His nerves were shot, his adrenaline drained, and yet Afton still leaned against the desk like they were in a waiting room, not a deathtrap.
"So… Vanessa, huh?" Schmidt ventured, mostly to distract himself from the fact that Bonnie had just moved two rooms closer. "You and her get along?"
Afton snorted. "Define 'get along.'"
"Well, you know, normal sibling stuff. Do you guys hang out?"
Afton's eyes darkened for a second. "Nope. She hates my guts."
"Oh." Schmidt was taken aback by the bluntness. "That's… harsh."
Afton didn't elaborate, his focus drifting back to the screen where Bonnie loomed in the West Hall.
"So, what's the story there?" Schmidt asked. "Family drama?"
Afton finally looked at him, his expression deadpan. "I killed our brother."
Schmidt blinked. "Wait. What?"
Afton held the silence just long enough for Schmidt's face to pale before he cracked a small, crooked grin. "Kidding. Mostly."
"Dude, what?" Schmidt was too tired to fully process the comment.
Afton shrugged. "We've got history. It's complicated."
"Right. Complicated." Schmidt rubbed his eyes. "Man, I thought my family was bad."
"You don't know the half of it," Afton muttered under his breath, barely audible.
Suddenly, a burst of static came through the monitor. Freddy's head twitched on the screen, his dead eyes locking onto the camera. Schmidt stiffened.
"Why is he looking at us?" Schmidt's voice quivered. "He's not supposed to be moving yet."
Afton, still nonchalant, glanced at the camera. "He's just sizing us up."
"SIZING US UP?"
"Relax," Afton said. "He won't come for us until later."
"How do you know that?"
"I've met him before."
Schmidt was about to ask what that even meant when a high-pitched giggle echoed through the empty halls. It was a child's laugh, sweet and innocent, but in the dead of night, it chilled Schmidt to the bone.
"What… the hell was that?" Schmidt's voice trembled.
Afton's casual demeanor evaporated in an instant. His entire body went rigid, his face paler than usual—if that was even possible.
Schmidt noticed the change. "Wait… you're scared? You're scared of something?"
Afton didn't respond. He just stared down the hall, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"Afton? What the hell was that?"
Without looking at Schmidt, Afton muttered, "Just close the door."
Schmidt was too freaked out to argue. He slammed the door shut, his hands shaking.
The giggle echoed again, but this time, it was farther away. Afton exhaled slowly, his grip on the desk loosening.
"What the hell was that?" Schmidt repeated his voice barely a whisper.
Afton straightened up, his face unreadable. "You don't want to know."
Schmidt stared at him. "You can't just—"
"I said, you don't want to know," Afton snapped, his eyes still scanning the hallway.
For the first time all night, Schmidt saw genuine fear in Afton's eyes. And that scared him more than any animatronic could.
AN: This would be a buddy cop retelling of FNAF 1 with both Mikes being around. Movie Mike might be a little ooc.
Killer Housewife
- Pronouns
- He
Killer Housewife AKA Mrs Afton becomes the killer instead of William.
Freddy Fazbear's smelled like cheap pizza and cleaning chemicals. The floors gleamed with an unnatural shine, and the faded posters of grinning animatronics looked newly touched-up, as if they were desperately trying to convince everyone that the place was still safe, still fun.
Still a place where parents could bring their children.
Linda Afton sat at one of the long tables near the back, sipping her coffee and watching. She didn't like these people. Not the staff, not the other parents. But most of all, she didn't like the children.
Children had a way of ruining things. They ruined everything.
She shifted in her seat, her eyes wandering to the brightly colored stage where Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica stood in their idle positions, waiting for the cue to come to life again. Henry was explaining something to William near the far corner of the room, something about a glitch with one of the animatronics. Linda heard the words "Night mode" and saw William nod absentmindedly, but she wasn't paying attention to them. No, her focus was elsewhere.
Her eyes locked on Charlie. She watched the girl move cautiously, nervously—like she knew something was off but couldn't quite put her finger on it. Smart girl. Too smart for her own good. Charlie was the type to notice things.
Linda took another sip of her coffee, her fingers gripping the handle of the cup just a little too tight.
That girl will be a problem eventually.
She didn't hate Charlie. Not yet. But the thoughts were already swirling in the back of her mind, forming into something clearer, something... darker.
It had been a year since the tragedy that started it all. A year since Evan, her sweet boy, was taken from her. Linda clenched her jaw. She had done everything she could for him. She was the good parent. The loving one. And what had that gotten her?
A dead son.
A broken family.
She'd watched William spiral after Evan's death. He'd started drinking more, withdrawing into himself. But even in his worst moments, even when he was at the bar, half-sloshed and mumbling about how everything was falling apart, he wasn't the problem.
No. She was.
William didn't have the stomach for real violence. He wasn't like her.
Linda's mind drifted back to that night, the night everything started. She had gone to pick up William from the bar. He was too drunk to drive—again—and she was furious. Furious at him for being weak, for being drunk, for grieving. He wasn't allowed to grieve. Not like she did. He didn't feel it the way she did. The wound, the loss—it wasn't the same.
And on the way back, that deer. It had just wandered into the road. It wasn't her fault that it was there, but when the car hit it, something... shifted inside her. She could still remember the crunch of bone, the way the body crumpled beneath the tires, how the blood had splattered across the windshield.
The next day, she didn't feel regret.
She felt something else.
She felt good.
And when she stood in the empty, closed Freddy's a few weeks later, luring little Cassidy—Evan's friend, Evan's best friend— into the back room, that feeling had returned. It was like the deer. Cassidy was small, and fragile. Easy.
Linda hadn't meant to kill her. Not at first. It just... happened. Cassidy had been saying too many things. Talking about Evan. Crying. Asking why Linda didn't blame Michael, and why Evan had to die.
The pain of it was unbearable. But when Linda's hands found their way around Cassidy's throat, the pain melted away. Her cries were silenced before they started. The girl's eyes had gone wide in terror, but Linda whispered to her, "You'll be with him soon."
She had done it for Evan. To reunite them. Cassidy would understand. Evan would be happy.
Linda smiled to herself, setting down her coffee cup. The police found Cassidy's body the next day. The whole town was horrified, of course. They thought it was some sick passerby, a tragedy that couldn't be explained.
No one suspected Linda. No one ever would.
Because no one could see what was inside her. Not like William. William was so oblivious. He'd spent months brooding over his own guilt, but he was too blind to see the truth about her. Too blind to see that she was stronger than him. Better. And when he'd drunkenly mumbled something one night about how "someone ought to stop all these kids from breaking into Freddy's at night," she'd listened.
She had taken that as a suggestion.
Linda's smile widened as she applied for the night shift the next day. Tonight was her first night on the job and she could not wait to give Evan more friends to play with.
The Bride of Afton
New
- Pronouns
- He
AKA A Love Story of two night guards.
If there was one thing Mary hated more than her shifts at Candy's Burgers and Fries, it was Candy the Cat himself.
"Oh, you smug little tin can," she muttered, glaring at the grinning animatronic as its oversized paws waved her goodbye from the stage. The restaurant's dim early-morning light reflected off its painted metal face, making it look even more sinister. "Hope you rust in hell, Candy."
The animatronic, of course, didn't respond. It never did. That didn't stop Mary from flipping it the bird as she slung her bag over her shoulder and marched out the door.
The early-morning air was cool and damp, the kind of weather that clung to your skin like a bad memory. Mary pulled her jacket tighter around herself and headed for the employee parking lot, already dreaming about collapsing into bed with a cold drink and a promise to herself that she'd find a better job. Someday.
She stopped short when she reached the lot.
Her car—the beaten-up red Chevy she had lovingly named "Rusty"—was gone.
"Are you kidding me?" she yelled into the empty lot, her voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. She spun around, looking wildly for any sign of the car thief. Nothing. Just an empty parking space and a faint oil stain on the asphalt where Rusty had once been.
"Great. Just great." Mary kicked at the ground, scowling. "Perfect end to a perfect shift."
With no car and no money for a cab—Candy's didn't exactly pay generously—Mary was left with only one option. Hitchhiking.
She trudged to the side of the road, sticking out her thumb as the first car approached. The driver—a middle-aged man in a station wagon—gave her a pitying look before speeding past.
"Yeah, thanks a lot, buddy," Mary muttered, lowering her hand.
The next car wasn't any better. Or the next. By the tenth car, her patience had worn thin, and her thumb had been replaced by an extended middle finger aimed at every passing driver.
"Hope you all get flat tires!" she yelled at a minivan as it zoomed by.
She was about to give up and start the long, humiliating walk home when the low rumble of an engine caught her attention. A motorcycle was approaching, its headlights cutting through the gray dawn.
The rider slowed as he neared her, pulling to a stop a few feet away. He cut the engine, and Mary found herself staring at a leather jacket, scuffed boots, and a helmeted face that screamed bad boy.
The biker pulled off his helmet, revealing a young man with dark, slightly dishevelled hair and tired eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"You need a ride?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Mary blinked. She hadn't expected anyone to actually stop, let alone someone who looked like they'd just rolled out of a James Dean poster.
"Uh, yeah," she said, regaining her composure. "Thanks. My car got stolen."
The man's eyebrows lifted. "Tough luck."
"Tell me about it," Mary muttered, stepping closer to the bike.
As she did, she caught sight of the patch on his jacket. It was subtle, just a small embroidered bear logo on the sleeve, but it was enough to make her stomach drop.
"You work at Freddy's?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
The man frowned. "Yeah. Why?"
Mary folded her arms. "I work at Candy's. You know, the better restaurant."
The man snorted. "Better? That's funny."
"Oh, you think Freddy's is so much better?" Mary shot back, her exhaustion and frustration boiling over. "At least our animatronics don't look like they're about to strangle someone!"
"Freddy's is fine," the man said, his tone dangerously close to condescending. "Better than Candy's knockoff junk."
Mary opened her mouth to retort, but the man shook his head and started putting his helmet back on.
"Okay, you know what? Forget it," he said, his voice tight with irritation. "Good luck walking home."
Panic flared in Mary's chest. "Wait!" she said, holding up her hands. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm just—tired. And mad. And my car got stolen. Please don't leave me here."
The man hesitated, his helmet halfway on. Finally, he sighed and pulled it off again. "Fine. Get on."
Mary climbed onto the back of the bike, trying not to think about how close she was sitting to this stranger—or how her hands were now gripping his jacket for balance. The engine roared to life, and they sped down the road, the wind whipping through her hair.
After a few minutes of silence, Mary couldn't resist asking, "So, what's your name?"
"Mike," the man said without looking back.
Mary frowned. "Mike what?"
"Just Mike."
She rolled her eyes. "Mysterious. Great."
"What about you?" he asked, his tone neutral.
"Mary," she said. "And before you ask, no, I don't enjoy working at Candy's."
Mike actually chuckled at that, the sound low and unexpected. "Yeah, I figured."
For a moment, the ride was almost... pleasant. The sun was starting to rise, casting a warm glow over the empty road. Mary found herself relaxing, the tension of the night beginning to fade.
"So, what's Freddy's like?" she asked, surprising herself with the question.
Mike was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "It's... fine. Just a job."
"Sounds like a great time," Mary said, her sarcasm earning another faint chuckle from him.
Mike dropped Mary off in front of her small apartment building, cutting the engine and glancing over his shoulder at her.
"Here you go," he said.
"Thanks," Mary said, climbing off the bike. She hesitated, unsure if she should say more.
Before she could decide, Mike reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and a slip of paper. He scribbled something on it and handed it to her.
"In case you need another ride," he said, his tone casual.
Mary took the paper, her fingers brushing his briefly. She unfolded it and saw a phone number written in messy handwriting.
"Thanks," she said again, feeling uncharacteristically shy.
Mike nodded, putting his helmet back on. "Take care, Mary."
And with that, he was gone, the roar of his motorcycle fading into the distance.
If there was one thing Mary hated more than her shifts at Candy's Burgers and Fries, it was Candy the Cat himself.
"Oh, you smug little tin can," she muttered, glaring at the grinning animatronic as its oversized paws waved her goodbye from the stage. The restaurant's dim early-morning light reflected off its painted metal face, making it look even more sinister. "Hope you rust in hell, Candy."
The animatronic, of course, didn't respond. It never did. That didn't stop Mary from flipping it the bird as she slung her bag over her shoulder and marched out the door.
The early-morning air was cool and damp, the kind of weather that clung to your skin like a bad memory. Mary pulled her jacket tighter around herself and headed for the employee parking lot, already dreaming about collapsing into bed with a cold drink and a promise to herself that she'd find a better job. Someday.
She stopped short when she reached the lot.
Her car—the beaten-up red Chevy she had lovingly named "Rusty"—was gone.
"Are you kidding me?" she yelled into the empty lot, her voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. She spun around, looking wildly for any sign of the car thief. Nothing. Just an empty parking space and a faint oil stain on the asphalt where Rusty had once been.
"Great. Just great." Mary kicked at the ground, scowling. "Perfect end to a perfect shift."
With no car and no money for a cab—Candy's didn't exactly pay generously—Mary was left with only one option. Hitchhiking.
She trudged to the side of the road, sticking out her thumb as the first car approached. The driver—a middle-aged man in a station wagon—gave her a pitying look before speeding past.
"Yeah, thanks a lot, buddy," Mary muttered, lowering her hand.
The next car wasn't any better. Or the next. By the tenth car, her patience had worn thin, and her thumb had been replaced by an extended middle finger aimed at every passing driver.
"Hope you all get flat tires!" she yelled at a minivan as it zoomed by.
She was about to give up and start the long, humiliating walk home when the low rumble of an engine caught her attention. A motorcycle was approaching, its headlights cutting through the gray dawn.
The rider slowed as he neared her, pulling to a stop a few feet away. He cut the engine, and Mary found herself staring at a leather jacket, scuffed boots, and a helmeted face that screamed bad boy.
The biker pulled off his helmet, revealing a young man with dark, slightly dishevelled hair and tired eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"You need a ride?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Mary blinked. She hadn't expected anyone to actually stop, let alone someone who looked like they'd just rolled out of a James Dean poster.
"Uh, yeah," she said, regaining her composure. "Thanks. My car got stolen."
The man's eyebrows lifted. "Tough luck."
"Tell me about it," Mary muttered, stepping closer to the bike.
As she did, she caught sight of the patch on his jacket. It was subtle, just a small embroidered bear logo on the sleeve, but it was enough to make her stomach drop.
"You work at Freddy's?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
The man frowned. "Yeah. Why?"
Mary folded her arms. "I work at Candy's. You know, the better restaurant."
The man snorted. "Better? That's funny."
"Oh, you think Freddy's is so much better?" Mary shot back, her exhaustion and frustration boiling over. "At least our animatronics don't look like they're about to strangle someone!"
"Freddy's is fine," the man said, his tone dangerously close to condescending. "Better than Candy's knockoff junk."
Mary opened her mouth to retort, but the man shook his head and started putting his helmet back on.
"Okay, you know what? Forget it," he said, his voice tight with irritation. "Good luck walking home."
Panic flared in Mary's chest. "Wait!" she said, holding up her hands. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm just—tired. And mad. And my car got stolen. Please don't leave me here."
The man hesitated, his helmet halfway on. Finally, he sighed and pulled it off again. "Fine. Get on."
Mary climbed onto the back of the bike, trying not to think about how close she was sitting to this stranger—or how her hands were now gripping his jacket for balance. The engine roared to life, and they sped down the road, the wind whipping through her hair.
After a few minutes of silence, Mary couldn't resist asking, "So, what's your name?"
"Mike," the man said without looking back.
Mary frowned. "Mike what?"
"Just Mike."
She rolled her eyes. "Mysterious. Great."
"What about you?" he asked, his tone neutral.
"Mary," she said. "And before you ask, no, I don't enjoy working at Candy's."
Mike actually chuckled at that, the sound low and unexpected. "Yeah, I figured."
For a moment, the ride was almost... pleasant. The sun was starting to rise, casting a warm glow over the empty road. Mary found herself relaxing, the tension of the night beginning to fade.
"So, what's Freddy's like?" she asked, surprising herself with the question.
Mike was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "It's... fine. Just a job."
"Sounds like a great time," Mary said, her sarcasm earning another faint chuckle from him.
Mike dropped Mary off in front of her small apartment building, cutting the engine and glancing over his shoulder at her.
"Here you go," he said.
"Thanks," Mary said, climbing off the bike. She hesitated, unsure if she should say more.
Before she could decide, Mike reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and a slip of paper. He scribbled something on it and handed it to her.
"In case you need another ride," he said, his tone casual.
Mary took the paper, her fingers brushing his briefly. She unfolded it and saw a phone number written in messy handwriting.
"Thanks," she said again, feeling uncharacteristically shy.
Mike nodded, putting his helmet back on. "Take care, Mary."
And with that, he was gone, the roar of his motorcycle fading into the distance.