So I was contacted by the man behind Thornewood Creations, which I hope means some of my readers sent some love his way. He graciously sent some more pictures of work that he does apart from wands, and before we jump into the usual fanfic chapter upload notification, allow me to share those pictures with you, because I cannot gush enough about this guy’s work. He needs, and I mean NEEDS to get an internet storefront somewhere, somehow. Check it out:
Okay! On to the boring author-stuff! A new chapter of my Five Nights at Freddy’s fanfiction just went up, and I’d like to take a moment if I may to say, sincerely, Thank you so much, all of you who are reading along. Thank you to those of the FNAF fan community who then looked up my other work and started following this blog. Thank you to my longtime readers who took a chance on fanfiction for a video game they may not even have heard of before I started filibustering its praises here. Thank you to everyone who has left a comment or review over at fanfiction.net or archiveofourown.org where the series is running. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to assure me that they are only waiting for the whole thing to be available so they can binge it without having to wait a week between chapters. And thank you thank you thank you to everyone who is patiently waiting for me to work this weird obsession out of my system and get back to writing real books. I appreciate each and every one of you.
Okay, with the mushy stuff out of the way, on with the update! Yes, there is a new chapter of Everything Is All Right, Part Three: Children of Mammon up, so if you’re reading along, please head on over and check it out. It may well be the longest chapter in the book (I kind of got out of the habit of paying attention to things like that), and it’s something of a pivotal point in the sub-narrative of the roof repair. Watch that first step, Ana. It’s a doozy.
Ana found the information she needed on the boot of the ventilator, took a picture with her phone and—in what she would later consider a genuinely paranormal episode of precognition—unthinkingly tucked her phone into her boot instead of her pocket. Later, this would be hilarious. Her psychic self apparently thought she could handle all the things who’d ever tried to kill her—countless beatings, the lake her mother had driven her into, scores of bad scenes she’d walked into while working for Rider, that whole mess with Mason Kellar, not to mention fucking Springtrap—but God forbid she lose her phone. She would keep the picture, that of the make and model information for a direct drive upblast roof ventilator, taken at 8:13 in the morning of June 29th, 2015, eventually printing it out and framing it. It hung on the wall for the rest of her life, in commemoration. For now, blissfully ignorant, she straightened up, took a swift count of the ventilators, then headed for the exhaust elements over by the kitchen, giving the dining room area as wide a berth as she could manage. She was almost done. The trick was not to get sloppy, not to rush, to be aware of the wind but not to fear it.
As if it could hear her, the wind came back with a vengeance, flattening her clothes and howling in her ears, but beneath its monstrous voice, Ana still somehow heard the crack. She knew instantly what it was. She looked anyway, just in time to see that iconic sign—FREDDY FAZBEAR’S PIZZERIA, where Fantasy and Fun come to life!—first shake, then splinter and finally explode. Fragments of letters spilled in all directions, insensible as a bowl of alphabet soup. The surviving painted figures of the mascots blew apart, giving her a glimpse of Chica’s bib, Foxy’s eyepatch and Bonnie’s guitar, but it was Freddy’s giant hat, because of course it was, that flipped over and slammed into her.
Her world went black so suddenly, she thought it had killed her. Just struck her dead right there on the roof, and whatever consciousness was left to have that thought at all was just the formless residue of her soul, waiting in the dark for a light to open up and show her where to go next.
Then she hit the roof—arm, back, knee, cheek—tumbling and scraping over its gravely surface as the hat perpetually slapped her along, until it decided it had had enough and wedged itself underneath her. The wind got behind it and suddenly she was one hundred percent airborne, riding Freddy’s fucking hat like a goddamn flying carpet for one heart-stopping second or two or three, before it flipped her over and slammed her down into a big bowl of roof pudding.
She fell through before she even knew she’d hit it and the hat covered the hole she’d made so she fell in the dark through that spongy, stinking mass into a blocky, unyielding something. She hit it like a hammer; it sounded like a gong. But she only hit it with the back of her head and one shoulder. The rest of her kept falling, dragging the rest of her with it, flipping her over in a blind cartwheel to bang facefirst into another hollow blocky something before she’d finished fully registering the first impact.
It was the last clear sense she had of her fall, although she remained conscious, because Ana’s thoughts divided then into three distinct memory-paths, none of them real.
In the first, she was again twelve years old, standing at the center of a ring of jeering faces as one of them told her she was so ugly, she must have fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. This was the first fight Ana had ever been in, and it had been the first because that was the most baffling and outrageous insult she could stand to take. If they’d made fun of her for being poor, for her ill-fitting clothes or the duct tape holding her split shoes together, that would have been fine. If they’d made fun of her for smelling, because she so often went to school directly from the closet, stinking of sweat and piss, even though she tried to only get it in the jar, that would have been fine too. But she knew she wasn’t ugly and it was the lie that finally broke her, the lie and the idea that she would never be beat up enough to satisfy these kids and the kids that would come after and the whole effing world, that they would also get to lie about her and laugh when they lied. No. Too much. So Ana punched. The kid, startled, punched back and all her friends piled on, but all of them together were no match for Ana’s mother, whose punches had been Ana’s teachers all these years. Ana took them without flinching and gave them back, beating at this screaming, crying tangle of children with her mother’s anger, her mother’s fists. She was the ugly tree, by God. She was every branch on the way down and when they had finished falling and lay all around her on the ground, they were the ugly ones, snotty and bloody and bruised and ugly.
That was the first memory-path. Beside it, no more real and no less vivid, she was nineteen and bogged down on some back road in a spring storm in Colorado, trying to push her car (the last car she would ever own; all the rest would be trucks) out of the mud and onto the pavement again while freezing water sluiced off the mountain around her ankles. Then came a surge of water, mud and rock, spinning the back end of the car around and shoving her right off the edge of the world and down the mountainside. It wasn’t very steep. She did not fall, but slid, now on her knees, now her belly, now her side. The water was all around, not deep, but frothy and foul, choking her as the mountain tumbled her away. She’d broken her leg and three ribs on that slide, but that was not the part she remembered now, only the tumbling, the suffocation, the stink.
In the third and last memory-path, Ana simply fell in the black and hit nothing. This was the Ana knocked dead on the roof by a flying top hat, the Ana who would fall forever because no light would ever come for her. She was in Mammon now, and all children of Mammon are forsaken.