This is my first post on here and I wanted to share my story I created based on a POV of Jeremy’s father, from the time of the missing children’s incident. THIS IS NOT REAL LORE. All credit of the real game and story goes to Scott Cawthon, I am in no way trying to imitate. It is just my own personal story which tells the father of the missing child Jeremey, who works alongside William and discovers the horrors from the MCI. This contains some NSFW such as mild language, and a heavy, sad story. It gives a dreadful, dark feeling. If you are looking for something scary but also leaving you feeling heavy hearted, my story should do just that.

Still Breathing

Written by: Landon Girouard

May 15th, 1985:

After months of unemployment, desperation causes me to accept a job at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. The position was a technician, repairing and maintaining those big bulky animatronics. What I didn’t expect was how quiet and eerie the restaurant becomes once all children and happy customers leave. Back in parts and service, the air reeks of oil and old fabric. I am surrounded by empty character heads and old clicking metal. My conscience is high and I work fast, as I often feel I’m not alone. Especially with that Fredbear suit in the back, I’ve heard rumors of a child’s head being crushed down by the jaw of it. My anxiety consumes me at the thought of such a tragedy happening to my little boy. My son Jeremy is six years old; he loves Freddy’s so much it’s just about impossible to keep him home. His joy has kept our family together. I’m not sure how I could live without him; he is my light.

June 4th, 1985:

While the party goes on, I am in the dark back room. The light flickers on and off, and that damn water pipe has never been fixed. As I work on one of the older models, I feel the pressure of a hand on my shoulder, I jump. “Easy” the voice says gently. “Didn't mean to startle you.” As I turn around, I see the bright smile on the man, well dressed, nice purple tie, calm demeanor, the kind that seems practiced. “William Afton” he says, extending his hand. “I am the owner, I apologize for not meeting you sooner, I've had personal matters.” His eyes immediately drift by me, toward that unused springlock suit of Fredbear sat limb against the wall. “I’d like it if that one stays right where it is, I will put him back together myself.” He says more quietly, but with a smile. I seemingly agree not to go against his wish. Once he leaves, I feel a strange feeling, more than before. The air in the room feels gone, like something is holding its breath. The suit terrifies me more now than before.

June 24th, 1985:

It has been over a month since I started working at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, and the days have begun to blur together. We’re understaffed, so I spend most afternoons around birthday tables, counting heads that won’t stop moving, smiling at parents who don’t notice how fucking tired I am. The noise never really stops, the balloons popping, arcade machines blaring, children screaming and running. But at that moment my eyes caught something. Across the dining room, walking around, is a man wearing the old Spring Bonnie suit. My heart drops. That suit was taken out of use years ago, sealed away in the safe room after the closure of Fredbear’s Family Diner. I know exactly how fragile it is, how a single slip, a drop of sweat, or a wrong movement can send the spring locks snapping inward, crushing bone and tearing flesh until there’s nothing left to save. I tell myself it must be one of my coworkers, that management wouldn’t be stupid enough to let anyone wear it. Still, something feels off. The suit moves too smoothly, too carefully. As I watch, the rabbit turns its head slowly toward a group of children and for just a second, I swear its eyes linger longer than they should. I look away, my chest tight, telling myself I’m imagining things. My eyes become high alert for the rest of the night. Something didn’t feel right at all.

June 26th, 1985:

Today is supposed to be a happy day. I keep repeating that to myself as I walk through the doors of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza with Jeremy’s hand wrapped tightly in mine. It’s his seventh birthday, and despite every instinct screaming at me not to bring him here, I promised him a party. I would tear myself apart if it meant seeing that smile on his face, even if it meant ignoring the fear that’s been growing in my chest since I started working

here. I tell myself I’m overreacting, and that nothing bad could happen if I’m close by. The party carries on as it always does, the animatronics singing those songs I hear every day, the pizza I am always forced to eat, and the loud children. But all I cared about was my happy

little son. When a staff member asks me to help bring out the cake, I hesitate before following them toward the kitchen, glancing back at my son last time. That’s when William appears beside me, so quietly I don’t hear him approach. He smiles calmly and speaks like this is nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “I know it’s your son’s birthday,” he says, “but Chica’s voice box is damaged. We need it replaced before the show tomorrow.” His eyes

don’t leave mine as he says it. I want to argue. I want to tell him no. Instead, I nod. I was so angry, but also terrified.

I spend hours in parts and services. The ticking of the clock is too loud, like a snapping in my ear each time, waking up my mind. The walls feel closer. I keep

telling myself Jeremy is fine and that I’ll be back any minute, but the longer I’m back there, the heavier the air feels, the more doubt creeps inside my body.

When I finally finish and rush back out, the party is over. Streamers hang limp. The tables are empty. Parents are

gone. Jeremy isn’t there. My chest tightens so fast it hurts to breathe. I call his name once, then again, louder, panic clawing up my throat. I searched for the restaurant from top to bottom. The bathrooms, the arcade, behind the stage, under tables, each empty space making my vision blur more. Sweat soaks through my shirt as dread swarms me like a disease, crushing all hope. I grab employees, demand answers, but no one saw him leave. No one saw him go anywhere at all. When I finally try to find William, to ask him what’s going on, I realize he’s gone too. His office is dark. His car is missing.

June 29th, 1985:

It has been three days since Jeremy went missing, though time has stopped meaning anything to me. Over seventy-two hours without sleep have left me feeling hollow, leaving me moving through each moment like a walking corpse. The police tell me they searched every inch of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza and found nothing. No signs of a struggle and no evidence. My wife has taken it worse than I have if that’s even possible. She barely speaks

anymore. She just sits in silence, crying until her lungs become raspy and raw. I don’t remember the last time she looked at me.

I lay in the bathtub, the water gone cold, a bottle clutched in my hands as I try to drown the thoughts that have kept me awake for days. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jeremy’s face in the crowd, smiling, waiting for me to come back. That’s when the phone rings. William’s voice is calm on the other end, almost polite, as if nothing has happened. He tells me they need me back at work. He says they're short-staffed and no one else can work the party today. He doesn’t ask how I’m holding up. He doesn’t mention my son. When the call ends, the silence feels like weight dragging me beneath that tub. I stared at the phone for a long time, realizing with a sick twist in my stomach that Freddy’s is the last place Jeremy was seen alive, and somehow, the only place still asking for me.

I arrive at work like a zombie, just moving on habit. The restaurant is full as always with children laughing, loud arcade machines, loud music, but none of it feels real anymore. I watch kids run past me with greasy hands and bright smiles, and all I can see is Jeremy, the way he used to tug at my sleeve, begging for one more game. The noise presses in on me, suffocating, until the show begins, and the animatronics take the stage. That’s when I notice that something isn’t right. Their movements are stiff, delayed, almost strained, like they’re fighting against themselves. The songs cut in and out, voices changing, distorting into low groans that feel dark. The worst part, the smell of odor that hits me like a truck. Once the building finally empties, the laughter leaving behind an awful silence, I force myself onto the stage to investigate. I first approach Bonnie to check. Up close, the smell is

unbearable. The suit is damp in places it shouldn’t be, and the fabric is heavy and darkened. My heart begins to race, every instinct screaming at me to stop, to walk away, but I can’t. I unlatch the head as I tremble. When I lift it off, time feels inexistent. Inside the chest cavity

of the endoskeleton, crumpled and small, is a body. Limbs bent at impossible angles. My lungs close up and all my breath is gone. I don’t scream. I can’t. Then my eyes latch onto the bracelet, Jeremy’s bracelet. My knees give out. I press my forehead against cold metal and sob. I can’t hear or feel anything now, but there is a sudden pressure on my skull, and then nothing.

When I awake, my head throbs and my wrists ache from being bound behind me. I’m seated in the Parts and Service room, surrounded by dismantled animatronics. The lights are dim; I hear humming come closer and closer, followed by laughter. William steps into view,

straightening his tie like he’s just finished a meeting. He doesn’t look panicked. He doesn’t look guilty. He looks relieved. “You weren’t supposed to find that,” he says, almost apologetically, before smiling wider. He then tells me about the children. About how easy it was. About how they trusted him. When he speaks about Jeremy, his eyes light up with interest, not regret. He talks about Fredbear too. About his own son that was killed, and the

sound his skull made when the jaw of the animatronic came down. He laughs when he says it. He says pain has a way of teaching lessons that love never could. I beg him to stop talking about it. He just observes me like I am not even human, fascinated, as if studying how much a person can break without dying. Finally, he stands, dusts off his hands, and cuts the restraints. “Go home,” he tells me. “You’ve lost everything worth keeping. I need you alive. Someone has to keep the place running.” He opens the door and lets me walk past him. He doesn’t stop me. He knows he doesn’t have to.

The house is dark when I get home. I call my wife’s name, my voice sounding ill, knowing she won’t respond. I expect to hear crying, only there is nothing. I find her in our bed, still as stone. A bottle lies on its side on the floor, pills of all kind. I sit beside her and take her hand. It’s cold. I couldn’t cry, there was nothing left in me to give.