Five Nights at Freddy's The Silver Eyes

They were both playing and hiding together as they always did. This time was
different. The little boy looked up toward the door suddenly as though they had been
caught doing something they shouldn’t have been doing. Charlie looked up as well.
There was a figure in the door. It looked like one of the costumes was standing on its
own, but it was motionless, so still that Charlie wasn’t sure what she was seeing.
It was the rabbit, the yellowish brown rabbit they loved, but it did not dance or
sing, just stood there and stared at them, unblinking. They began to squirm under its
gaze, and the little boy screwed up his face to wail, and Charlie pinched his arm, seized
with an instinctual sense that they must not cry. The rabbit looked back and forth from
one to the other with those all too human eyes, ponderous, as though weighing and
measuring them in some way that Charlie could not understand, as though it were making
a momentous decision. Charlie could see its eyes, its human eyes, and she was cold
with terror. She felt the fear in her brother as well, felt it echoing between them,
reverberating and growing because it was shared. They could not move, they could not
scream, and finally the creature inside that patchwork, ragged yellow rabbit suit reached
forward for the boy. There was a moment, one single moment, when the children still
clung together, gripping hands, but the rabbit snatched the boy to his breast, yanking
them apart, and fled. From that moment the entire memory shattered with piercing and
unrelenting screams, not her brother’s, but her own. People rushed to help, her father
picked her up and held her, but nothing could console her; she screamed and screamed,
louder and louder. Charlie snapped back from her dream, the sound still high and
painful in her ears. She was crouched down in silence; John stood at the door, not
daring to interrupt.
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