—precious demon—of my dreams—let me pick and—tear your seams—

The bathroom stall won’t open. His shoulder hurts. The door rattles, but it’s locked from the outside. He has to go. The lights are off and he has to go. The bathroom stall won’t open, and there’s laughter on the other side.

He has to get him. His parents will kill him if he shows up at home without him. Show up without who?

Who are you talking about, little rabbit?

The sickly yellow light overhead flickers once, showing him shadows that move underneath the gap in the stall.

The music has stopped. No, not stopped, but changed. No more Journey or The Romantics, but a different kind of melody that raises the hairs along his arms. That’s not Rick Astley’s voice, that’s a girl’s voice. A little girl whose words are too soft for him to hear.

He has to go. He has to get out. He has to find him and get home—what if someone stole their bikes? He has no money for a bus ride home. He spent the last of his quarters on a round of Galaga. Maybe he can ask the nice person at the prize counter if she can call his parents, but he doesn't want to call them. That’ll be a bother to them. He doesn't want to bother them.

Why don’t you crawl under the stall door?

Oh, he thinks, that works. So he does that. But the door out into the hallway is blocked off. He presses an ear to it and listens. No more music of any kind. Just screaming. Dozens of voices screaming questions he can only pick up fragments of.

How does this happen?

Who let that child near it?

Where are his parents?

Isn’t he too young to be here by himself?

…

He’s not here by himself, though. I need to get to him. Let me get to him and I can take him home and this will all be over and nothing bad would have happened and I can wake up.

“Don’t listen to him.”

Ricky jumps when the voice behind him reverberates through the marrow in his bones. It wasn’t a real voice, was it? It was in his head. Always in his head.

“You can leave,” the voice says, urgent. “Just leave!”

“I can’t get out. The door’s locked. Something happened out there.”

“Go home.”

“I don’t want to,” he says, his back now to the door to face the darkness in the corner of the bathroom. Something stands in that corner, too big to be shrouded but all he can register is the suggestion of an outline. Two rabbit ears reach skyward.

“We shouldn’t have come here.”

“We had nowhere else to go,” he sobs, grabbing at his own jacket. He's suffocating in it. It’s too hot in here. Someone’s turned on the heating. His head hurts. It hurts a lot, like wires being fed through soft skull tissue and into his brain, melding with live nerves and—

Everybody, please remain calm. The situation is under control. First responders are on the way.

“They’re classics, just like my darling Bonnie here.” / “You named your car?”

Bonnie?

A knock on the bathroom door and he screams for help, for anyone to get him out, there’s a monster in here and it’s talking to him. More muffled voices, two men now. These he can understand because they’re right outside and—the door swings open and he doesn't wait, he doesn't think, he doesn't look. He runs and trips right into one of the men who sets him free.

“Hey there, hey, it’s okay,” the man is saying, his voice soft in the way adults sound when they lie. One of his hands is on Ricky's back, the other supporting the back of his head, and Ricky is crying. He can’t stop crying. “Oh,” the man continues, “I saw you earlier, you were with…” He trails off, and the hand on his hair moves to cover one ear, the other pressed to his chest. He’s speaking again, but Ricky can still hear the muffled words. “Bill, I think they might be siblings.”

“Dammit. Dammit!”

Ricky looks up at the man holding him and he doesn’t have eyes that he can see. He’s blurry in the brightly lit hallway but there's a halo of hair, a beard, a frown on his face. He pushes away from the man and the man lets him go, but keeps his hands where Ricky can see as he kneels in front of him. He says something but Ricky can’t hear it—another sound, much louder, coming through the intercom.

We are sorry for the inconvenience, but Freddy Fazbear’s has now closed for the evening. Join us again tomorrow for another exciting day of fun and games! Goodbye!

Red and blue lights spill across the checkerboard tile.

And red. Red, so much red, spilling and running and reaching for his sneakers and—

“Henry, the cops are here.”

The kneeling man looks up at the equally shrouded standing man and nods his head. “On my way,” he says. Then, to Ricky, “let’s get you with everyone else. Want to hold my hand?” He tilts his head to the side with a smile. “Don’t listen to him. Whatever he says to you, do not listen to him. You do not follow him. You do not think yourself smarter than him. You run. Do you understand?”

Ricky nods, but he doesn't. He doesn't understand.

“Let’s go, little rabbit.”

come and find me.