Mike slammed the accelerator as his small car skidded out of the parking lot. What had happened there was terrifying, so much more scary than whatever the animatronics at his regular location had done. They had only slunk around the halls, making creepy faces while staring right into the cameras, and ocassionally pressing their ghastly faces against the security booth windows. But they had never straight-up threatened him like what had just happened that night. Mike was still shaking from the memory. For crying out loud, he was nearly crushed by a giant animatronic rabbit!

Half an hour later, Mike screeched into the parking garage at his apartment block and slid into his space, narrowly scraping a pillar that sat in the middle of the car park. He swung open his car door and and ran across the concrete, soon ascending the narrow stairwell. He sprinted along the hallways and barged open his apartment door, earning a shock from Fritz, who jumped about a foot into the air. "For God's sake, Mike!" he shouted, "Don't come in so quickly! You gave me quite a-"

"Where's Jeremy?" Mike interrupted, not bothering to listen to Fritz any longer.

"Someone say my name?" said Jeremy, who had walked into the room from the kitchen, nonchalantly leaning on the wall with a cup of coffee in his hand. The two guards spoke in unison. "How was your night?" they said. Jeremy spoke first. "Well, left the booth at 12a.m., nearly beat Freddy's head in, then got to know the others and then talked for four hours." Mike looked at him with strange jealousy. "Mine was much worse, Jeremy."

"How?" the guard asked.

"Well, I meet BB, kick him and he goes flying down the hall," (Jeremy burst into laughter at this point), "Toy Bonnie arrives and annoys me, Mangle comes in and I insult her by accident, Toy Freddy comes in and I kick him in the groin, he leaves, then the animatronics gang up on me and Bonnie nearly kills me." Jeremy paused for about a minute taking in this information. "Much worse, indeed." he said, walking over to the sofa and plopping himself into the seat. He put his feet up on the coffee table and picked up the television remote, beginning to absent mindedly flick through the channels. It seemed that Jeremy had lost all interest in the situation. Mike shook his head and walked to his bedroom, flopping onto the bed and lying down.

The next night, the night guard arrived at his usual Freddy's close to the witching hour, and went through the normal routine before walking the halls to his booth. Mike stepped under the heavy metal door and sat down in his swivel chair, picking up his camera tablet and flicking through the cameras to get himself comfortable. He watched the others leave the building, but stayed in the booth once 12 a.m. rolled around.

About an hour later, after having a short chat with Freddy at the door, Mike sat and absent mindedly flicked through the cameras. Suddenly, very clearly, the night guard heard his name being called from the halls. It was a man's voice, belonging to somebody he did not know but it sounded strangely familiar. Somewhat disturbed, Mike popped his head into the hallway and glanced into the gloom. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he stabbed at the darkness with the beams of his flashlight and again saw nothing.

After returning to his chair, Mike sat puzzled over the noise, and was contemplating whether he was imagining it when he heard it again. There it was, clear and loud, a man's voice calling the night guard by his formal name. By now Mike was getting annoyed. He picked up his flashlight and strode into the corridor, watching the shadows retreat as the harsh white light cleared the way. Mike entered the dining area and was shocked to see a man sitting on one of the tables. Foxy was standing several feet away, staring in disbelief at the figure that sat, relaxed on the table. Bonnie and Chica silently paced backwards, their faces masks of horror. Mike took in the man's features before speaking. The figure was quite old, around 60 years old or so, and had grey, balding hair. He had a bristly chin and sharp blue eyes that calmly surveyed the pizzeria. For some reason, he also wore a night guard's uniform, seemingly dating several years older than Mike's. But the most noticeable feature, by far, was that the figure seemed to exhibit a yellowish glow.

Mike, slightly frightened, spoke up. "Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here?" The figure turned his head towards the night guard and simply replied with, "Well, hello Mike!" The man in question staggered back in shock. "How the hell do you know my name?" he said. "And also, why are you dressed like-" Mike stopped himself, realising who this man was. "Phone Guy ?!" The figure frowned. "Well, if that's what you'll call me, yes I am the 'Phone Guy' as you have put it."

"Aren't you dead or something?" asked Mike, rather perplexed.

"Yes, if you say so." Goosebumps began be break out on the night guard's skin and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. If 'Phone Guy' was dead, then that must mean...

"The fuck? You're a... a... spirit?" Mike stammered. This had gotten all rather... well... odd. No wonder the figure sat before him was glowing an off-colour. "I thought that ghosts were the stuff of fiction."

"Well, as you can see with me, it seems that it is quite the opposite. And please," he added, "call me Peter." Mike began to slowly pace backwards. When he was younger, things such as ghosts and spirits would terrify him to the core, and the night guard was experiencing an awful reprise of his childhood feelings of horror. "Wait, wait, wait," Mike said, "if no other guards have died, then why are you still here?"

"Well," said Peter, "my time came to an end during the 1970's, when I worked at the first incarnation of this restaurant. Like you, I was a night guard, as you can see by my uniform. I had worked as a night watchman for over twenty years, in several different locations. Shopping centres, restaurants, train stations, airports, the lot. Due to my extensive knowledge and experience, I was tasked with training a rookie guard at Fredbear's by leaving him messages over the phone, and-"

"So how did you leave me phone messages?" interrupted Mike.

"More on that later. On the fourth night of this guy's training, I was recording my messages, and I wasn't on the ball that night. So, the animatronics managed to get into my office and Foxy screamed at me from a doorway. Now, as I was quite old and smoked, the assault literally gave me a heart attack. I died practically on the spot." Mike interrupted again, having just realised something. "Hey, Bonnie," he said, gesturing to the rabbit who was standing transfixed several feet away. "Didn't you say that Peter recovered from his heart attack?"

"Well," Bonnie said, "I kinda lied. We didn't know back then that these guards were human. He later appeared to us in spirit form and told us to keep it schtum."

"Anyway, Peter," Mike said, "carry on, then."

"With no phone calls to aid him, the rookie guard was caught and suit-stuffed. This is why you haven't seen him in spirit form; his soul is confined to the suit he was stuffed into. As I died otherwise, my spirit is free to roam, but his is sadly not."

"With the deaths of two night guards in one week, Fredbear's was forced to close. The 'bots were kept to reuse at another location, and the second restaurant opened, under the new name of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. To keep the next night guards from suffering the same fate, I possessed the phone to aid them through the 'recorded' messages. The two survived and still work there, and I still 'visit' them. A new restaurant opened, this one, and my older messages were reused, leading to where we are now." Mike put his hand on his chin and contemplated this retelling of Peter's life (or, rather, death) story. "I hope that all has been explained by now." Peter said with a smile.

"I guess." Mike replied.

"Well, as all is good, it seems I am no longer needed. Farewell, Mike." Peter said.

"Wait!" called Mike, "Will you still be around here?"

"Yes, Mike. Call me in future if I'm needed at all. See you on the flipside." And with that, the yellow glow seemed to soften, and Peter slowly dissolved from sight. As the inky black of the shadows returned and overpowered the yellow, Mike ruffled his hair, breathed a sigh, and returned to his booth.

"I really need to cut down on my coffee intake."

Chapter 8 is complete! And I bet you all thought I was dead. In reality, of course, I was not six feet under but suffering from severe writer's block. What is it? Two months? Whatever. Sorry.

Five Nights At Freddy's belongs to Scott Cawthon.

This is arseyman, signing out.