And just as soon as I finish this post, I will be off and playing, and I hope that those of you who are (or have become) FNAF fans will also check out Scott’s new game. It won’t feature anywhere in my fanfiction, however, because I am NOT tearing apart my timeline to work the new restaurant and characters in. If Scott Cawthon wanted to see the Sister Location featured in Everything Is All Right, he should have cleared the game with me before he developed it.
While you all have a hearty laugh at the expense of my entitled ass, please enjoy the new chapter of my FNAFiction, EIAR, Part Two: Mike Schmidt and the Long Night, which you can find at fanfiction.net or archiveofourown.org!
Ana wasn’t sure when she woke up. It was still dark, the perfect medium for blending dreams into reality. Further blurring the lines was one of Mammon’s summer storms, flickers of lightning and rolling thunder pouring through cracks in her sleep-wall and forming into fireworks on the other side. She’d been dreaming of the night she’d spent in the hospital, which actually might have been the Fourth of July for real, although she couldn’t be sure. It had been so long ago. Even if it hadn’t been for the accident that had smudged over so many of her childhood memories, she’d only been five or six years old at the time. Between that and taking a bottle to the head and the serious painkillers they’d put in the drip, she couldn’t trust any of her memories of that night even when she was awake, much less when she was dreaming.
Lightning danced, showing her a strobe-lit shadow-puppet show on the walls of her tent, giving her a tantalizing glimpse of lunging hands and distorted faces before throwing her back into perfect blackness. Rain slapped the tent just long enough for her to think the storm was moving off and then the thunder hit, so loud and so close that she sat bolt upright, wide awake in a split-second, hospital dreams forgotten, dead sure the house had collapsed.
Scrambling out of her old army-surplus sleeping bag, Ana splashed down into half an inch of warm rainwater that had seeped up through the bottom of the tent and collected in a puddle there at the mouth. It was weather-resistant, not water-proof. She knew it and it certainly wasn’t the first time it had leaked on her, but in the dark, with fragments of her dream choking out reason, the unexpected presence of that water inside her tent seemed too much like an omen of ruin, so much that when she fumbled the zipper open, she looked right at the house—standing immoveable against the fury of the storm—and did not believe it.
Lightning pulsed behind the clouds, outlining the house in silver thread and shining on the wet glass, especially the round attic window—
—with a white face at its center, looking down at her.