Charlie’s duplicate stared back at her, looking stunned for an instant, then Charlie watched her own face curve into a bright, cruel smile. The other Charlie didn’t move, and Charlie’s fear receded as she watched this strange imitation of herself, astonished. That’s my face. Charlie reached up and touched her own cheek, and the other girl imitated her; Charlie tilted her head to the side, and the girl mirrored her movement—Charlie could not tell if she was being mocked, or if the other girl was simply as entranced as she was. The duplicate was a little taller than Charlie, and Charlie flicked her eyes to the girl’s feet: her black combat boots had heels. She was wearing a red V-neck shirt and a short black skirt, and her hair was long and hung in shiny waves—a look Charlie had given up even attempting halfway through ninth grade. She looked polished; confident in her stance. She looked the way Charlie wished she could be: some version of herself that had figured out curling irons, and sophistication, and taking up space in the world without apology.
“What are you?” Charlie whispered, mesmerized.
“Come on,” the other Charlie said, holding out her hand, and Charlie started to reach out to her, then stopped herself, yanking her hand away. She shrank away, stumbling back across the hall and her duplicate closed the distance between them, leaning in so close Charlie should have felt her breathing. A long moment passed, but the other Charlie did not draw breath. “You need to come with me,” she said. “Father wants us to come home.” Charlie startled at the phrase.
“My father is dead,” she said. She pressed back against the wall, as far from the girl’s face as she could get.
“Well, would you like to have a live one?” the other Charlie asked, with a mocking edge.
“There is nothing that you can give me, and certainly not that,” Charlie said shakily, inching backward into the storage room; the duplicate followed her step for step. Charlie glanced past the duplicate and into the open bedroom door; John emerged into the hallway, leaning heavily on the doorframe and gripping his side.
“Are you okay, Charlie?” he asked in a low, steady voice.
“Oh, I’m just fine, John!” Charlie’s duplicate said cheerfully.
“Charlie?” John repeated, ignoring her. Charlie nodded, not daring to take her eyes off the imposter.
“She says Father wants us to come home,” Charlie said.
John stepped up behind the other Charlie.
“Father? Would that be William Afton?” John demanded. He took a few sprinted steps and grabbed a lamp by its base, raising it for attack. The other Charlie smiled again, then swiftly raised her arm and backhanded John across the face. He dropped the lamp and staggered backward, catching himself against the wall, and the duplicate grabbed for Charlie’s hand. Charlie ducked away, running for the hallway with the girl on her heels.
“Hey! That was just round one!” John shouted, beckoning his assailant to come back. He grabbed the duplicate girl’s arm, yanking her back toward him and away from where Charlie had run. The duplicate allowed John to hold her close, not resisting. John was washed with fear as he stood eye-to-eye with the imposter. Now what do I do?
“Just like by the old oak tree when we were little, John,” the duplicate whispered. She pulled him close and pressed her lips against his. His eyes widened, and he tried to push her away, but he could not move. When she finally released him and pulled back, she was Charlie, his Charlie, and there was a high, painful ringing in his ears. He covered his ears, but the ringing increased exponentially, and for the few brief seconds before he collapsed to the ground, he saw her face morph into a thousand things. The room spun, and his head hit the ground with a crack.
* * *
The girl smiled and glanced at Charlie, then drew back her foot and kicked John in the ribs, knocking him onto his side and against a heavy wooden trunk. Charlie ran toward him, but before she could reach him, the girl grabbed her hair, bringing tears to her eyes. The imposter pulled upward, lifting Charlie several inches off the ground, and then flung her aside. Charlie tried to regain her footing but tripped backward over a cardboard box and slammed hard into the opposite wall, knocking the wind out of her as John got warily to his feet. Charlie climbed to her knees. She dragged in heavy, grinding breaths, watching helplessly as the other Charlie strode toward John.
He straightened, and without a pause, she punched him in the stomach. He doubled over, and before he could stand, she hit the back of his head with her fist, like it was a hammer and he was a nail.
John fell forward, catching himself on his hands and knees, and scrambled up. He lunged again at the girl, catching her shoulder with his fist, but the blow glanced off her, and he yelped in pain, clutching his hand like it had hit something harder than flesh and bone. The imposter took him by the shoulders, lifting him off the ground, and carried him across the room, then pressed him against the wall. She released him and let him stand, turning to look at Charlie momentarily, then she placed her open palm against John’s chest.
Suddenly, John began to gasp for breath, his face turning red. The imposter’s face remained unchanged, her open hand slowly pressing harder against his chest. “I can’t—” John gasped for air. “Can’t breathe.” He clutched at her arm with both hands, but it was no use as she continued to steadily press into him. John slowly began to slide up the wall, inch by inch, the pressure forcing his entire body upward.
“Stop!” Charlie cried, but the other Charlie didn’t flinch. “Please!” Charlie scrambled to her feet and ran to John’s side, but the other Charlie snapped out her other arm and caught her by the neck without moving her hand from John’s chest. Her fingers closed on Charlie’s throat, closing off her windpipe as she lifted her up onto her toes. Charlie choked, kicking and gasping. The imposter held her there, looking expressionlessly from Charlie to John as she kept them both immobilized and struggling to breathe.
“Okay,” Charlie wheezed. “I want to talk. Please,” she begged hoarsely. The imposter dropped them both. John fell motionless to the floor. “You’ve hurt him, let me help him.” Charlie coughed, pulling herself up.
“You’re so attached to something so … easily broken,” she said with amusement. Charlie strained to see past her, anxiously watching John’s chest as it rose and fell. He’s alive. Charlie took a breath, then turned to face the girl who had her face.
“What do you want to talk about?” she asked tightly.
* * *
Carlton let the heavy door slam shut behind him and ran on without looking back: there was another door up ahead, and dim light filtered through a small window near the top. The child’s cry echoed again, and Carlton froze, unable to pinpoint its direction. The high-pitched sound pierced the air again, and he grimaced at the sound: it was raw and thin, the scream of a kid who had been screaming for a long time. Carlton peered through the window in the door—it looked deserted, and he opened the door cautiously, then stopped dead. Everything looked the same: every hall, every room. Lights flickered, speakers hummed. One light seemed to be about to burn out, making a high-pitched screech that echoed through the chamber.
“Kid,” he whispered, but there was no answer, and Carlton was suddenly aware that he may have been chasing echoes and lights for the last ten minutes. He suddenly felt the weight of how alone he was, and it became a physical thing; the air itself seemed to grow heavier around him. His breath slowed, and he dropped to his knees, then fell back to sit. He stared down the empty hallway despairingly, and finally scooted to the side, maneuvering his back against the wall so he could at least see his assailant before he died—whoever—or whatever—his assailant might turn out to be.
I’ve failed. I’m not going to find him. Tears sprang to his eyes unexpectedly. Michael, I’m so sorry. In the days after Michael disappeared, his father had asked him so many questions, going over that one afternoon like he believed together they could re-create it and solve the puzzle. I searched for the missing piece, I promise, I searched. He had gone over every moment of the little party in his mind, desperately trying to find the clue his father needed, the detail that would make everything clear.
There were so many things he could have done to stop what had happened, if he had known then what he knew now.
But now I know it all, and there’s still nothing I can do.
“I failed you, Michael.” Carlton put his hand on his chest, trying to calm himself and not hyperventilate. I failed you, again.
* * *
“So, what do you want to talk about?” Charlie repeated. The other Charlie narrowed her eyes.
“That’s better, a lot better.” The girl smiled, and Charlie leaned back as far away from her as she could. It was unnerving to see her own face glaring back at her, accusatory and petulant.
“I’ll listen to anything you want to say, just don’t hurt him more,” Charlie pleaded, her hands raised in surrender, her heart fluttering. Charlie’s duplicate flushed with anger.
“This is why,” she hissed, shaking her finger accusingly.
“What? This is why? I don’t understand,” Charlie cried.
Charlie’s imposter paced the floor, her anger seeming to have drained as quickly as it came. Charlie took the opportunity to look to John again, who had rolled partially onto his back, holding his side as though in immense pain, his face still red. He needs help.
“What are you?” Charlie growled, her anger rising at the sight of John.
“The question isn’t what am I. It’s what are you? And what makes you so special, over and over again?” Charlie’s duplicate approached her with renewed anger, grabbing Charlie by the throat once more and lifting her off the ground. She pinned her to the wall, baring all her teeth.
The ruse of Charlie’s imposter faded, revealing a painted clown face, somehow looking angrier than the human facade. The white plates of the face opened like a flower, revealing yet another face, made of coils and wires, with bare black eyes and jagged prongs for teeth. Her real face, Charlie thought.
“Ask again,” she growled.
“What?” Charlie choked.
“I said ask me again,” the metal monster snarled.
“What are you?” Charlie whimpered.
“I told you, that’s not the right question.” The metal girl held Charlie out at a distance and looked her up and down. “Where did he hide it?” She held Charlie’s throat with one hand and put her other hand on Charlie’s chest, then ran a finger down the length of her breastbone. Then her eyes shot to Charlie’s face, and she grabbed her chin and turned her head forcefully to the side. She seemed lost in thought for only a moment then snapped back. “Ask again.”
Charlie locked eyes with the metal face. The face plates closed over the tangle of twisted metal, reassembling the face of the clown, with her rosy cheeks and glossy lips. Soon the illusion returned, and Charlie was staring into her own eyes again. Charlie felt herself growing uncannily calm as she began to realize what the right question was.
“What am I?”
The imposter loosened her grip, and lowered Charlie so that her feet touched the ground. “You are nothing, Charlie,” the imposter said. “You look at me and you see a soulless monster; how ironic. How twisted. How backward.” She let go of Charlie’s throat and took a step back, her red lips losing their savor for the moment. “How unfair.”
Charlie was on her knees again, struggling to regain her strength. The imposter approached her and knelt with her, placing her hand over Charlie’s. “I’m not sure how this will work, but let’s give it a try,” she whispered, running her fingers through Charlie’s hair and firmly grasping the back of her neck.
She was a little girl, holding a piece of paper in her hand, excited and full of joy. A bright gold foil star shimmered on the page, above the glowing words of her kindergarten teacher. Someone gently touched her back, encouraging her to run forward into the room, into the dark. She eagerly ran inside, and there he was, standing by the work desk.
“How long did I stand there before he shooed me away?” Charlie searched her mind, but the answers didn’t come.
“He didn’t shoo me away,” Charlie’s other voice answered.
Her eagerness didn’t fade, she remained patient and joyful. After the first push, she came back to try again. It was only after the second push that she hesitated to go back, but she carefully returned anyway, this time holding the paper into the air. Maybe he didn’t see it.
“He saw it,” Charlie’s other voice spoke down to her.
This time it hurt; the ground was cold, and her arm ached where she had fallen on it. She looked for the paper: it was on the floor in front of her, her gold star still shone bright, but he was standing on the page now. She looked up to see if he noticed, tears in her eyes. She knew she should leave it, but she couldn’t. She reached forward to tug at the corner, but it was too far away. She finally crawled to it on her knees, her dress dirty now, and tried to pull the page from under his shoe. It wouldn’t come loose.
“That’s when he hit me.”
It was difficult to make out anything in the room after that. The room was a smear of tears and pain and her head was still spinning. But she made out one thing, a shiny metal clown doll. Her father had turned his attention back to it, lovingly polishing her. Suddenly, her pain faded to the background, replaced with fascination, obsession.
“What is all of this?” Charlie cried.
Now she was looking at herself in the mirror, holding a stick of lipstick that she’d stolen from her teacher’s purse. But she wasn’t painting her lips with it, she was drawing bright red circles on her cheeks. The lips came next.
“Are you listening to me?” the doppelganger whispered.
Night had swept over everything. The rooms were dark, the halls were silent, the lab was still. Her feet made soft pats against the smooth white tiles. A tiny camera in the corner had a red blinking light on it, but it didn’t matter what it saw, it was too late to stop her.
She pulled the sheet away from the beautiful clown girl, beckoning her to speak. Where was the button, the one he always pressed?
The eyes lit up first, and then other lights from within. It didn’t take long for the painted face to search the room and find her, greeting her with a sweet smile and soft voice.
“Then there was screaming.” The illusion was broken, and Charlie pushed herself away. “Then there was screaming,” the imposter repeated. “It was coming from me, but …” She paused and pointed to her own head with a look of curiosity. “But I remember seeing her scream.” She looked thoughtful for a second, and suddenly the illusion dissipated, and she appeared again as the painted clown. “It’s strange to remember the same moment from two pairs of eyes, but then we were one.”
“I don’t believe that story,” Charlie growled. “I don’t believe that story at all. You aren’t possessed! If you think I will believe for one second that I’m talking to the spirit of a sweet and innocent little girl, then you’re crazy.”
“I want you to call me Elizabeth,” the girl said softly.
“Elizabeth?” Charlie answered. “If you were this little girl, Elizabeth, I can’t bring myself to believe that that little girl would be capable of all of this.”
“The anger isn’t from her,” Elizabeth said, her painted face shifting: she looked like a wounded animal, vulnerable but still poised to attack.
“Then what?” Charlie cried.
“My anger is from a different father.” Elizabeth strode to Charlie again, grabbing her neck again and jostling her into a white light and pain, where suddenly all was calm.
A hand was stroking her hair. The sun was going down over a field of grain. A cluster of birds were fluttering overhead, their calls echoing out over the landscape. “I’m so happy to be here with you,” a kind voice said. She looked up and nestled against him.
“No, this is mine,” Charlie protested.
“No,” Elizabeth intruded. “That doesn’t belong to you. Let me show you what does belong to you.”
Agony erupted, flooding the room with its sound. The walls went black and streams of water poured down from behind the window curtains. A man lay curled on the floor, something cradled tightly in his arms, and when his mouth opened, the room shook with the sound of his anguish.
“Who is that?” Charlie said anxiously. “What is he holding?”
“You don’t recognize her?” Elizabeth said. “That’s Ella, of course. It’s all your father had left after you were taken.”
“What, no, that’s not Ella.” Charlie shook her head.
“He cried over that cheap store-bought rag doll for two months,” Elizabeth snarled with disbelief. “He cried into it, he bled into it, he poured his grief over it. Very unhealthy. He began to treat it as though he still had a daughter.”
“That was my memory, me sitting with my dad, watching the sun go down. We were waiting for the stars to come out. That’s my memory,” Charlie said angrily.
“Look again,” Elizabeth instructed, forcing the image upon her once more.
There was a hand stroking her hair. The sun was going down over a field of grain. A cluster of birds were fluttering overhead, their calls echoing out over the landscape. “I’m so happy to be here with you,” a kind voice said. He gripped the doll tightly, and smiled despite the tears streaming from his face.
“Of course, he wasn’t content with that, you had to grow up. So, he made more.”
Her arms hung off the side of the workbench. The joints were stiff enough to carry something lightweight, and her eyes were more realistic than he had ever made them before. He propped her up and extended her arms straight in front of her, carefully balancing a small tray on them, then setting a teacup on the tray. He furrowed his brow with frustration for a moment, turning a brass knob over and over until the room quivered and flashed, then everything stood still, and the little girl looked at him and smiled.
“That’s MY memory!” Charlie screamed.
“No, that’s his memory,” Elizabeth corrected.
“Jen, I swear she is more than another animatronic doll. You should see. She walks, and she talks.”
“Of course she walks and talks, Henry.” Jen’s voice was angry. “She walks because everything you build can walk, and she talks because everything you build can talk. But the reason why this one seems so real is because you’re destroying your mind with these frequencies and codes.” Jen threw her arms in the air.
“She remembers, Jen. She remembers me. She remembers our family.”
“No, Henry. You remember. Zap your head with enough of those rays and I bet you can get the teakettle to tell you about your lost family.”
“My lost family,” Henry repeated.
Jen took pause, looking regretful. “It doesn’t have to be that way, but you need to let go of this. Your wife; your son, they can still be a part of your life, but you have to let go of this.”
“She is in this doll.” He gestured to Ella, who was standing upright with her teacup perched on the tray. A little rag doll sat in a wooden chair in the corner, its head draped over the armrest, its eyes staring out over the room.
“It took him a while to figure out that it was the rag doll, the little store-bought rag doll. Maybe he never sensed you when it wasn’t around, I don’t know. But over time, he started putting it inside his Charlie, whatever new Charlie he built.”
Charlie sat speechless, remembering all the times with her father, questioning each of them. Sitting on the floor of his workshop, building a block tower out of scraps of wood as he bent over his work. He turned back to her and smiled, and she smiled back, beloved. Her father went back to his work, and the jumbled creature in the far, dark corner twitched. Charlie startled, knocking her blocks to the ground, but her father did not seem to hear. She began to rebuild the tower, but the creature kept drawing her gaze: the twisted metal skeleton with its burning, silver eyes. It twitched again, and she wanted to ask, but could not make herself speak the words.
“Does it hurt?” Charlie whispered, the image so clear that she could almost smell the hot, metallic scent of the workshop. Elizabeth froze, then all at once the illusion vanished and the metal plates of her clown-painted face stripped back, baring the coils and wires, and jagged teeth. Charlie shrank back, and Elizabeth moved with her, maintaining the distance between them.
“Yes,” she whispered, and her eyes blazed silver. “Yes. It hurt.”
The plates of her face folded back in, but her eyes still glowed. Charlie blinked and looked away; the light blinded her, poking pinpoint holes in her vision. Elizabeth stared bitterly. “So, you remember me, then?”
“Yes.” Charlie rubbed her eyes as her vision began to clear. “In the corner. I didn’t want to look. I thought it was … I thought you were … someone else,” she said, her voice sounding thin and childish to her own ears.
Elizabeth laughed. “Did any of those other things really look like me? I’m unique. Look at me.”
“It hurts my eyes,” Charlie said faintly, and Elizabeth grabbed her by the chin and pulled her close. Charlie shied away, closing her eyes against the light, and Elizabeth slapped her cheek with painful force.
“Look at me.”
Charlie took a shaky breath and obeyed. Elizabeth’s face looked like Charlie’s again, but the silver light poured out coldly from the place where her eyes should be. Charlie let it flood her vision, blotting out everything else.
“Do you know why my eyes were always glowing?” Elizabeth asked softly. “Do you know why I twitched and shuddered in the dark?” Charlie shook her head slightly, and Elizabeth let go of her chin. “It was because your father left me turned on all the time. Every moment, every day, I was aware, and unfinished. Watching him as the hours passed, and he created toys for the little Charlie, unicorns and bunnies that moved and talked as I hung in the dark, waiting. Abandoned.” The glare from her eyes faded a little, and Charlie blinked, trying not to show her relief.
“Why am I even talking to you about this. You weren’t even there yet.” Elizabeth turned her face, almost in disgust.
“I was,” Charlie answered. “I was there. I remember.”
“You remember,” Elizabeth mocked. “Are you sure you were there for all of those memories?” Charlie searched her thoughts for anything that could confirm the memories she clung to.
“Look down,” Elizabeth whispered.
“What?” Charlie whimpered.
“Your memory. I’m sure it’s crystal clear, since you were there and all.” Elizabeth smiled. “Look down.”
Charlie returned to her memory, standing in front of her father’s workbench. She was immobile; she didn’t have a voice. “Look down,” Elizabeth whispered again. Charlie looked to her feet, but didn’t see feet at all, only three legs of a camera tripod anchored to the ground.
“He was making memories for you; making a life for his little rag doll, making her a real girl.
“I’m sure many of those memories have been elaborated upon, edited, and embellished, but make no mistake, Charlie wasn’t there.” Elizabeth leaned closer to Charlie.
“He made us one, two, three.” Elizabeth touched Charlie’s shoulder lightly, then brought her hand back to her own chest. “Four.” Her eyes flickered, and the silver glow faded until her eyes looked nearly human.
“Charlie would be a baby, then a little girl, and then a sulky teenager.” She looked Charlie up and down with a pointed sneer, then her expression cleared as she continued. “Then at last she would be a woman. She would be finished. Perfect. Me.” Elizabeth’s face tightened. “But something changed, as Henry labored, racked with grief, over his little girl.
“The littlest Charlotte was made with a broken heart. She cried all the time, day and night. The second Charlotte he made when he was at the depth of madness, almost believing the lies he told himself; she was as hopelessly desperate for her father’s love as he was for hers. The third Charlotte he made when he began to realize he’d gone mad, when he questioned every thought he had, and begged his sister Jen to remind him what was real. The third Charlotte was strange.” Elizabeth gave Charlie a contemptuous look, but Charlie scarcely saw it. The third Charlotte was strange, she repeated silently. She ducked her head and rubbed the flannel of her father’s shirt with her thumb, then looked back up. Elizabeth’s face was stiff with rage; she was nearly trembling.
“What about the fourth?” Charlie asked hesitantly.
“There was no fourth,” she snapped. “When Henry began to make the fourth, his despair turned to rage. He seethed as he soldered her skeleton together, pouring his anger into the forge where he shaped her very bones. I was not Charlotte-drenched-in-grief. I was made alive with Henry’s fury.” Her eyes flared again with silver light, and Charlie stayed herself, forcing herself not to blink. Elizabeth leaned in closer, her face inches from Charlie’s. “Do you know the first words your father ever spoke to me?” she hissed. Charlie shook her head minutely. “He said to me, ‘You are wrong.’
“He tried to fix the flaw he saw in me, at first, but what was wrong, as Henry saw it, was the very thing that made me alive.”
“Rage,” Charlie said softly.
“Rage.” Elizabeth drew herself up and shook her head. “My father abandoned me.” Her face twitched. “Henry abandoned me,” she corrected herself. “Of course, I could not comprehend those memories until I had received a soul of my own—once I took it for myself.” She smiled. “Once I had endowed myself with a soul, I experienced those memories anew: not as an uncomprehending toy, twitching and seizing with an all-consuming rage I could not fathom, but as a person. As a daughter. It’s rather a cruel irony that I would escape the life of one neglected daughter only to embody another.”
Charlie was silent, and for a moment her father’s face returned to her, his smile that was always so sad. Elizabeth laughed abruptly, shaking her out of her memories.
“You’re not Charlie, either, you know. You’re not even the soul of Charlie,” Elizabeth mocked. “You aren’t even a person. You’re a ghost of a man’s regret, you’re what’s left of a man who lost everything, you’re the sad little tears that fell unceremoniously into a doll that used to belong to Charlie.” Elizabeth suddenly glared at her as if looking through her. “And if I had to take a guess …” She grabbed Charlie under her chin and pulled her upright, studying her torso for a moment. She made a quick motion with her other hand and Charlie gasped; the room was spinning again. Elizabeth’s hand had disappeared, but it soon reemerged, and she was holding something.
“Look before you lose consciousness,” Elizabeth whispered. There, before Charlie’s eyes, was a rag doll, and recognition flared.
“Ella,” she tried to whisper.
“This is you.”
The room went dark.
* * *
What was that? Carlton lifted his head, holding his breath as he waited to hear it again. After a moment he did: someone was whimpering, and the sound was coming from nearby. Carlton took in a renewed gulp of air, instantly filled with new purpose. After hours of flickering bulbs and distant echoes, this was right beside him. Carlton leaped to his feet: across the hall a door was ajar, with an orange light glowing unsteadily from inside. How did I not notice that? Carlton made his way across the hall, sliding his feet along the floor so as not to make a sound. When he reached the door, he peered in cautiously through the crack: The orange light was from an open furnace set into the wall, its mouth large enough to fit a small car. The furnace was the only light in the dark room, but he could make out a long table, with something dark lying on it.
The whimpering came again, and this time Carlton’s eyes lit on its source: a small, blond-haired boy was huddled in the darkest corner of the room, opposite the furnace. Carlton ran into the room and knelt beside the boy, who looked up at him numbly. He was bleeding from shallow cuts on his arm and one corner of his mouth, but Carlton saw no other visible injuries.
“Hey,” he whispered nervously. “Are you okay?” The boy didn’t respond, and Carlton took hold of his arms, readying to pick him up. When he touched the child, he could feel the tremors throughout his body. He’s terrified. “Come on, we’re getting out of here,” Carlton said. The little boy pointed to the creature on the table.
“Save him, too,” the boy whispered tearfully. “He hurts so bad.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Carlton glanced at the large, motionless figure on the table by the furnace: he hadn’t considered that it might be a person. He scanned the room to make sure nothing else was moving, then patted the boy on the shoulder and got to his feet.
He approached the table cautiously, keeping to the wall instead of walking across the center of the room. As he got closer, the burning smell of metal and oil rushed up against him, and he covered his face with his sleeve, trying not to gag as he examined the prone figure.
It’s not a person. On the table, illuminated by the flickering orange light, was a mass of metal: a melted, clumpy skeleton of metal bulges and blobs, barely resembling anything at all. Carlton studied the thing for a long moment, then looked back at the little boy, uncertain what to say.
“Heat,” a voice snarled, and Carlton spun around to face a twisted man, creeping out from the shadows. “Heat is the key to all of this,” the man went on as he haltingly approached the table. “If you keep all this at just the right temperature, it’s malleable, it’s moldable, and it’s highly, highly effective; or maybe contagious is the word. I suspect you could put it in anything, but it’s best to put it into something that you can control—at least to a certain extent.” William Afton lurched into the light, and Carlton stepped back reflexively, though the table was between them. “It’s an interesting alchemy,” William continued. “You can make something that you control completely, but that has no will of its own, like a gun, I suppose.” He ran his withered hand over the silver arm of the creature. “Or you can take a drop of … pixie dust.” He smiled. “And you can create a monster that you … mostly control, one with unlimited potential.”
Carlton. He stepped back with a shout of surprise: the voice was so clear in his head that he recognized it instantly. “Michael?” The single word was enough. Carlton turned to the table with a new, terrible clarity. He knew exactly what he was looking at: the endoskeletons of the original Freddy’s animatronics, welded and melted together, immobile and featureless. And still inhabited by the spirits of the children who had been murdered inside of them so many years ago. Still filled with life, and motion, and thought—all trapped; all in terrible pain. Carlton forced himself to look William Afton in the eye.
“How could you do this to them?” he asked, nearly trembling with rage.
“They do everything willingly,” William said plainly. “The process only truly works if they freely release a portion of themselves.” The flames rose without warning, and heat radiated in painful waves from the gaping furnace. Carlton shielded his eyes, and the creature on the table convulsed. William smiled. “Scared of fire. But they still trust me. They don’t see me as I am now; they only remember me as I was, you see.”
Carlton broke his eyes away, feeling like he was waking from hypnosis. He darted his eyes desperately around the room, looking for something, anything, to attack with. The chamber was strewn with scrap metal and parts, and Carlton grabbed a metal pipe that lay by his feet and hefted it like a baseball bat. Afton was gazing down at the creature on the table, apparently insensible to anything else around him, and Carlton hesitated, considering the man for a moment. He looks like he could fall apart all on his own, he thought, taking in Afton’s fragile, hunched body and the thin skin of his head, seeming to scarcely cover the skull beneath. Then he looked back to the creature on the table. I think I’ve got the moral high ground here, he decided grimly, and raised the pipe over his head as he stalked around the table toward Afton.
Suddenly, his arms were jerked above his head, the pipe dropping from his hands and hitting the ground with a bang. Carlton struggled with the cables that gripped his wrists, but he could not wrestle free. Slowly, he was lifted off his feet, his arms stretched painfully out to his sides by two cables that extended from opposite sides of the room, seeming to attach to nothing.
“I’ve never tried this on a human being before,” William muttered, pressing some kind of mechanical syringe into the chest of the molten creature on the table. He wrenched the tool sideways, extracting something with great difficulty. The syringe was opaque, and Carlton could not see what filled it, but his heart raced as he began to suspect he knew where this was going. He tugged harder at the cables that bound him, but each time he pulled, he only wrenched his shoulders from side to side. Afton pulled the syringe out of the creature and gave a satisfied nod, then turned to Carlton.
“Usually this goes into something mechanical; something I made. I’ve never attempted it on something … sentient.” William gave Carlton a measured stare. “This will be an interesting experiment.” William lifted the mechanical syringe, carefully placing it over Carlton’s heart. Carlton gasped, but before he could try to move, William plunged the long needle into his chest. Carlton screamed, then realized distantly it was really the blond boy in the corner screaming: Carlton wheezed and gasped, but could make no sound as his chest burned with a blinding agony. Blood soaked his shirt, and it clung to his skin as he convulsed in his bonds.
“For your sake, you’d better hope my little experiment does something; because I doubt you will survive otherwise,” William said mildly. He nodded toward the cables and Carlton dropped to the ground; the pain in his chest was unthinkable, he felt like he’d been hit full-on with a shotgun. Blood sputtered from his mouth, dripping onto the floor, and Carlton curled around himself, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain intensified. Please make it stop, he thought, then, Please don’t let me die.
“Maybe the heart was too direct,” William lamented. “Well, that’s the point of this, to learn, trial and error.” He turned his gaze toward the blond-haired child, who still huddled weeping in the corner.