01 Feb A is for Abandoned – Five Nights at Freddy’s Creepypasta Stories
There’s really no other way to start this than by saying that I have no idea what the hell I saw down there, and frankly I don’t want to know. God, it’s so difficult to even begin writing about this, but I have to tell someone, alright? Just know that there are some truly sick people out there; who knows? Maybe it’s that friendly old neighbor who walks his dog every morning with a smile and a wave, or that quiet student that always sits in the back drawing in his journal… my point is that it could be anyone. It could be someone you thought you knew before it was far too late.
Well, guess I need to start at the beginning…
I’m going to preface by saying that I am… well… was I guess now… into urbex, or urban exploration. It was something that I picked up from my time in college. You see, my school, who I typically root against during football season despite my attendance (Go Blue!), only ever has two seasons: winter, and construction.
As such, the place is constantly undergoing change, and even without all that stuff happening, there’s a lot more to the campus than meets the eye. I’ve been to numerous university landmarks many times, before and after reconstruction, visited a long-closed former lecture hall that was originally built back in the ‘20s as a women’s student union complete with swimming pool, traversed the underground passages connecting the buildings at some major complexes such as the business and medical districts, and even used the underground steam tunnels as shortcuts in between classes.
Of course, the excitement of exploring places where nobody either knows about or even is supposed to be grew quite addictive, and I began to perform urban exploration in earnest once I graduated, attempting to learn more about the history and hidden beauty of the city. I even traveled around for a bit and visited some of the more… shall we say… infamous locales.
While I’m sure you’d love to hear about my adventures exploring creepy abandoned Kirkbride asylums, my befriending a drifter who was pushing around a shopping cart full of soda cans in Cleveland, or my road trip to Centralia back in ’09, that’s not what I came here to write about.
No, it’s about my most recent visit; the one that made me decide to take a break from urbex for a while.
The one that has me constantly in fear for my life.
With tensions between the US and North Korea at an all-time high since the last presidential elections, I recently became intrigued with the exploration of abandoned fallout shelters throughout the country, untouched since the Cold War. I had visited the former bunker at the Masonic Temple in downtown Salt Lake City, and had been gradually making my way south to get a glimpse at the past. I admit that it wasn’t as atmospheric as what I’m used to… most of them were just basements, really.
The real target was those fallout shelters that were often on private residences, those backyard hidden locations the landowners were often too lazy to deal with. That’s the kind of thing that makes the news, like the ones back in California and Wisconsin four years back. Those things are a blast from the past, a time capsule of some bygone pre-apocalyptic era where many American families believed that they would be bombed to oblivion any day now, you know, like in the “Terminator” series. It’s a grab bag, really; I’ve seen places that would make an antique store owner wet, and I’ve also seen places already looted by the less… wholesome folk. I remember getting chased out of one by this knife-wielding purple hobo that had been using the place to spend the night.
But I’m digressing I suppose. You wanted to know what happened, so… yeah.
I had heard rumors of a big one in the woods near Brushton, a podunk community near Cedar City, Utah. I wasn’t sure about this at first; if rumors had already been flying around, then certainly it would have been picked clean by now? But then I heard of some of the more interesting murmurs online. There were a lot of conflicting claims about the place, but the overall consensus was that this place was fucking haunted. Now I don’t believe in ghosts, but well, if that didn’t pique my interest…
So here I was, standing above a pair of rusty iron doors leading down to god knows where in the middle of the woods. Normally that would get me pretty excited, since who knows what kind of treasure might be buried down there? Historical, I mean. But for some reason I was feeling uneasy. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard the chirping and buzzing you’d normally find in forests for a while. Well, I wasn’t going to let that discourage me, it wouldn’t be the first time. Taking the crowbar I carried with me in my pack, I carefully pried open the door to reveal a steel ladder fixed to the wall. I turned on my headlamp and began my descent.
As I climbed down the ladder, I could not help but notice the musty, metallic odor permeating the area. I gazed around, illuminating the space with my headlamp; it took me a while to muster up the courage to explore, but when I did, I saw things that I wasn’t really paying that much attention to at the moment, but knowing what I know now, they should have been my first signs to run.
The first was that it looked as if there was not enough dust and forest debris caked over what little there was, despite it being apparently unused for quite some time. Of course, the way the entrance was sealed might have played a part, but the furnishings looked too… new. Like within-the-last-month new. Well, what do I know about furniture of the 1960s?
Another was the notable absence of supplies and accouterments such as rancid food rations or clunky, outdated lighting and electronics; what was there was either too heavily-decayed or didn’t work at all, forcing me to rely on my headlamp to orient myself.
But what disturbed me the most for some reason, was the bathroom. There was no dust on the mirror and the faucets kept dripping every so often. You’d think they would have shut the water off a LONG time ago.
Furthermore, in one of the bunk bed rooms, I noticed furniture piled up quite haphazardly throughout, blocking the space. Now that I think of it, someone, or something took the time to clear out one of the rooms free of furniture, and that room was just behind the last unopened door.
Throughout it all, I had this very tense gut feeling that I wasn’t quite aware of at first. It felt like I was being watched; not only that, but whoever or whatever was watching me clearly did not appreciate my presence. The hairs on the back of my neck were constantly on end as if frozen by a thousand glaring shadows, and I was certain that I sometimes heard a soft, low giggle echoing throughout the compound.
I had already pondered these things when I heard soft footsteps from the other side of the door I was focused on, causing me to freeze instantly. Was someone in here with me??? I listened carefully as the soft pat pat noise continued, and I pulled out my Morakniv I brought with me in case things went south. “Hello?” I called out. The footsteps immediately stopped, and the smell kept getting stronger, now with a distinct coppery tone to it that I didn’t want to think about. Gingerly, I reached for the doorknob leading to the last chamber, ready to either fight or fly if need be.
I should have just left. That would have kept me safe.
A horrid, sickening metallic stench struck me like a wall, forcing me back as I dry heaved and tried my hardest not to vomit. My eyes began to water as I took in the impossible sight before me. While the other rooms had that feeling of oppressive Cold War austerity I was just beginning to get used to, this last chamber was like a slaughterhouse. Also, whatever presence had been there before was now weighing me down, like an immense hatred tinged with perverse joy. The room felt burning hot and icy cold at the same time and my mind was screaming at me to run and call 911, but at the same time I felt like I was being pinned down by some otherworldly force, paralyzed in fear. Then somehow, just as I felt like I was at my limit, it stopped abruptly and the room fell silent once again.
It felt like hours before I mustered up the courage to look inside. I was absolutely certain there would be a dead body in there, and I didn’t want to get into that kind of predicament. What I found was far worse than that. Forget the slaughterhouse, this was straight out of a Satanic horror movie. There was no other person inside, alive or dead, but a mutilated fox lay on the ground, its eyes and tongue bulging out as it lay on the concrete with its throat slit and its legs seemingly torn off. Its innards lay exposed, coming out of a jagged gash covered in flies; it looked as if someone had cut the poor thing open and removed some of the organs, which lay in a bowl on a nearby table next to some papers about a word I didn’t recognize: “haruspicina“, whatever that meant (I would later come to learn that this basically involved divination by the entrails of a sacrificed animal). Whoever resided here was clearly insane, but before I began to wonder who could have possibly done this and if he was still around, I found a leatherbound journal on the chair.
What I read within was horrifying.
Apparently the original author had been trying to perform experiments combining technology and the occult, with the aim of creating some kind of alternate body, one impervious to the effects of aging and physical pain. Strangely, though, it appeared that this journal had not been created by whoever was inhabiting this dungeon; there were far too many inconsistencies in handwriting style. Upon realizing this, I looked back and saw that the journal had been heavily annotated by multiple people, the most recent owner’s notes matching the dark blue handwriting upon the other papers and contrasting with the faded black that comprised the majority of the corpus. The last few pages seemed to shed some light upon the situation.
That’s when I began noticing some more bizarre details that had escaped my attention previously.
I found a framed selfie showing a high-school couple laying facedown upon a messy table. The two figures appeared to be holding hands and enjoying themselves, or at least one of them was. The girl was a perky goth chick with all-black accessories, complete with a tiny black-lipped smile and dark pigtails. She must be pretty cute. The boy, however, was a lanky pimpled youth carrying a maroon Jansport and decked in second-hand clothes that didn’t quite fit his size. On his neck was a silver chain with a pentagram charm, inverted of course.
Also, among the ritual gear and other esoteric things were the remains of animatronic toys and other electronic gadgets, as well as more apparently meaningless crafts such as a crate of plush toys packed full of rice and wrapped up in red thread. Furthermore, several heavily-annotated blueprints were laid out on a nearby table, all coming from a company called “Fazbear Entertainment”.
It would appear that after finding these notes, the last owner of the corpus did some further research. He claimed to have discovered the work of a certain William Afton on the Deep Web, and was trying to replicate it using more conventional approaches; a notable set of experiments was written with Japanese text interspersed throughout which I could not understand. The word “remnant” had been consistently highlighted, both in this chronicle and on the blueprints.
The last filled page of the journal depicted a massive ritual configuration, with a Freddy Fazbear animatronic sitting in the middle of a pentagram surrounded by four other symbols, which matched the dark stains covering the walls.
I looked closely at the animatronic Freddy; this had to be the ugliest hunk of scrap parts I’d ever seen, as if whoever put him there managed to salvage him from a junkyard and reconstructed him to a travesty of my childhood. He was sitting in the middle of a massive pentagram covering the concrete floor, which appeared to be marked in blood quite recently. Red yarn had been tangled all over his body, in a larger imitation of those rice-packed plush toys. He was on the ground with his hands out to his sides in a slouching position, like an awkwardly-propped corpse, and upon closer inspection, I could see the barely decipherable symbols which nearly blended in with the brown surface. Also, although this may have been some kind of momentary panic-fueled hallucination, I could have sworn I heard heavy breathing nearby. I felt compelled to examine the head more closely, afraid that there might be a person inside, but to my relief, there was only a mechanical endoskeleton beneath the shell. As I placed the head back, it drooped forward, its jaw opening like a gaping skeleton’s.
I had enough of this place. I still don’t know what compelled me to grab the journal as I made my way out of this bedlam. Just as I reached the door, however, I heard another distorted giggle behind me and looked back.
I need to stress something to you: whilst you have no reason to trust me, I swear on my father’s grave that this next thing happened exactly as I portray it. Freddy had already stood up. He was FUCKING STANDING UPRIGHT and staring at me with its hollow eyes. To add to that, another low chortle echoed throughout the room, leaving no doubt as to its source.
The next thing I remember, I was in the car doing 70 in a residential area hauling ass out of there; no matter how much I try to remember, everything about my escape is still a blur, as if I was subconsciously blocking out something I shouldn’t have seen. I went straight to the police, and told them I had come across some maniac wearing a bear costume in some underground bunker in the woods… come on, it’s not like I could tell them the truth, right?
Well once the cops got involved, that opened a whole new can of worms. They could not find the costumed maniac, but not for lack of trying; apparently, by the time they arrived, someone had already looted the place clean. All they found were the bloodstains and gore among the ruined detritus and the ransacked furniture. But there was also something else. You see, only a few yards away from this abattoir, they found a body. I was now the prime suspect for the kidnapping and murder of Tanner Albright, a student at the Theodore Roosevelt High School in Brushton who had gone missing a week prior.
The bloodied corpse was barely recognizable as human, but one look at that pimply face and everything made sense.
Lord, did they grill me about it, repeatedly asking me if I knew him and where was I during the last few weeks. I insisted over and over again that I could not have been involved, detailing exactly how I came across the bunker and the events surrounding it. I swore up and down that I wasn’t alone down there and that whoever was with me had to have killed Tanner; I simply would not believe that they couldn’t find anything or anyone matching that description inside or nearby, not when they said it with a tone that made me feel that they weren’t telling me everything. They even had the audacity to suggest that maybe I had been hallucinating down there and imagined the bear costume, followed by spurious accusations of me doing drugs. It was a brutal interrogation, and they kept trying to find nonexistent holes in my testimony; they even dragged in Police Chief Burke from Hurricane to question me, but I honestly couldn’t figure out what good that would do, except maybe for some kind of good cop/bad cop routine? Soon, it became pretty clear that I had nothing to do with the murder, so they had to let me go.
Well… at first, I guess.
A few days later I spotted Chief Burke while waiting in line at Grind Coffee House. He must have recognized me too, because before I knew it, he was standing right behind me, and when I was about to pay, he stepped in and offered to cover my tab. Why was he so pushy even now? I’d already told him all he needed to know back at the station, right? We sat down together and shot the shit for a while, talking about sports, family, school, all that jazz. At one point, though, he looked at me with a curious expression and spoke up.
“Now Russ, am I right? You’re a pretty smart kid with a bright future. Not that many people get a master’s degree that young, you know.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“I like you, kid. I really do; but what I don’t like is to be lied to.”
I froze. Of course he must have known.
“You think I can’t figure out when you’re holding back the truth? You saw something down there, didn’t you? Something really really messed up. And I don’t want to hear about no guy in a bear suit just running around the woods, we both know that’s a load of shit.”
Chief Burke leaned back and placed his hands behind his head. “So tell me, son. What did you see in that bunker?” I sat there, biting my lip in thought. “You wouldn’t believe me. You’d think I’m crazy.” Chief Burke gave a small sigh. “Russ, I’ve been in the force for more than 26 years now. I’ve seen a lot throughout my career, there isn’t really that much that surprises me anymore.”
Touché. I guess, nothing to lose, right?
I told him the whole story starting from the rumors I heard floating about the place and going into considerable detail about the charnel house that was the bomb shelter, talking about how the place felt so oppressively wrong and how the mascot seemed… alive. I could have sworn I saw his eyes widen for a bit when I got to this part. I even showed him the book I found inside that detailed the writer’s rituals and trials, which he read for a long time before placing it on the table with a frown. The whole time he didn’t say a word, only listening thoughtfully as I recalled that harrowing experience. When I was done, it was his turn to remain silent in rumination, slowly nodding his head as he processed what he heard.
“…so they figured it out after all…” he muttered, or so it sounded like. Then he turned to me.
“I think it would be better if I held on to that book for a bit. You really should have said something about it when we questioned you about all this.” I grimaced in shame at his admonition. “I’m… I’m not in trouble, am I?”
“Nah, not really, but you want my advice? Put this out of your mind, and take a break from urbexing for a while, too. If what you said was true, then you’re treading in some really nasty waters here. Leave while you still can, just go home, and just try to leave this in the past, alright?” I was a little confused but some instinct told me to heed his advice. Well I guess I could do the first two. I ended my trip early, went back to my ordinary life, and honestly forgot about it for a while.
So why do I write about all this now?
Yesterday I received an email with the subject “REMEMBER WHAT YOU SAW”, and a short anonymous message:
I know who you saw down there. We need to talk.
It came with an attachment: “freddy.7z”, a set of photographs taken throughout various locations throughout the country. I wasn’t sure what to look for at first until the fourth picture, and when I saw it, an electric tingle of panic coursed through my body and I could swear I heard laughter like what came out of the bunker as I fled.
Somewhere in the background of every single photograph was what looked like a man in a dirty stained Freddy costume, wrapped in trailing red yarn that constantly snagged against the undergrowth, with a tattered brick-red rucksack hauled over its shoulder.
On its wrist dangled a silver pentagram.
Even half a country away, I still don’t feel safe from Freddy.