Finding The Five || FNAF Movie

1 || Odd Job Offers

He didn't need to find it; I knew what he was talking about the moment he said flier. It had been over a year since I posted them, so long that the other name on the poster, Annabeth Skylar, no longer meant anything to me. There were four that we hung up in the least-sketchy part of New Orleans, trying our hardest to find someone who wouldn't kill us but would also be willing to pay for something most people thought was just a bunch of lies and manipulation. 

For as haunted as New Orleans clearly was (and still is), people didn't treat mediums with a lot of respect.

All that being said, I had no idea how this Michael Schmidt guy even found the poster, much less how he had gotten my home phone from it. The only number on that paper belonged to Skylar's family home, and they hadn't lived there for months. 

"Are you calling asking for a medium?" I questioned, a little flabbergasted but too intrigued to immediately tell him Skylar and I no longer offered our services or even worked together anymore. 

"I... yeah, I am," he replied, his voice an amalgamation of too many tones and emotions for me to try and guess how he was feeling in that moment. 

"You know that poster is over a year old, right?" I asked, running my fingers through my hair. Chestnut brown strands fell back into the right side of face, the side the old phone wasn't against. My hair was oily, I remember looking at it and dreading having to spend money to replace the empty bottle of shampoo that I had trashed three days prior. 

Micheal Schmidt's voice pulled me out of my pity party. "I know, but I really need some answers and I think if you can really talk to ghosts, you might be able to help." 

"How did you get this number?" I popped the question and slumped over so I could lean my left shoulder against the beige kitchen wall and look at the ground. 

"Through lots of different numbers," he replied, not nearly giving me enough to trust him. My silence must've tipped him off, because he went on to briefly explain, "The home phone number wasn't either of you, but the family gave me what I assume was the Annabeth Skylar's home phone. She told me she couldn't help because she lived in Washington now. She then gave me your landlord's number and your landlord gave me yours." 

"All that so you could ask me if a poster from a year ago was still valid?" The idea was insane to me. Whoever this Michael Schmidt guy was, he had to be pretty desperate. 

 "Are you still open to make appointments?" he asked, his voice barely loud enough for me to hear. "I'll pay you." 

"Well yeah, I'd expect you to pay me, but I don't know if I can help you," I admitted, looking down at my grey tee shirt and baggy black sweatpants, both littered with holes and covered in old stains. "I'm not in the best situation financially, I don't know if I can miss work just for fifty bucks and a cool story." 

"Please, is there any time you can make it? I'll bring you there, I'll even pay extra. Or double. Whatever it takes," Michael Schmidt pleaded. Something in the way he spoke, whether it be the choppy sentences or scattered thoughts or even the emotion I could almost feel through the phone, began to convince me. But not entirely. 

"Tell me about the situation, then I'll make up my mind," I said, pulling the phone cord to see if it would be long enough for me to sit down with. It was, so I did. That way the soles of my feet wouldn't continue to be tortured. 

"There's a pizzeria in Chalmette, Louisiana, about twenty-two minutes outside of New Orleans. It's been closed down for years, but I worked a security guard job there back in February. A lot of things happened, but I'm absolutely certain there are at least five child spirits there and they've been giving my little sister and I nightmares recently. Since sometime around Halloween, through the holiday season," he explained, quickly adding. "I haven't told her I've been having nightmares because I don't want her to try to convince me to take her back there." 

"And yet you're asking me to go," I mumbled, trying to play it as if I were skeptical even though I was thoroughly interested in his dilemma.

I haven't been to a pizzeria in over a decade and a half. The thought came out of left field, and I immediately wished it had stayed there. Memories of a childhood I had enjoyed flooded my brain, sickening my stomach and dropping the staggering weight of existential dread I had been trying to avoid straight onto my shoulders.

"Look, I don't want to go back. Truth be told, I'd probably move across the country-- to Washington, even-- if I thought that it would fix the nightmares, but it won't. And I know it won't," Michael Schmidt responded, sounding a bit insane but also somehow completely clear of thought. It confused my empathic sense for a moment, feeling such different things from the same person. Looking back now, I'd probably equate the feeling to the sensation kids get while running from the hot tub, jumping into the pool, and scurrying back to warmth only to do it again. If only that were happening at ten times the speed. 

"And you think getting a medium to go to this haunted pizzeria and talk to these ghost children is going to solve your nightmares?" I asked, tilting my head before I leaned it against the wall. 

"It's worth a shot. Maybe you can help them move on? Do you do that?" I chuckled quietly and looked up at the ceiling.

"I've never been asked to do that before, by a person or a spirit," I admitted, unable to suppress a lazy smile. "I'll bite, but I've got rent to pay and not nearly enough money to miss a day of work. We'll have to do it at night and uh... you'll have to bring anything you want me to use." 

"Like what?" Schmidt asked. 

"Well, I'm assuming an abandoned pizzeria at night is going to be pretty dark, so flashlights are probably a good place to start," I joked, momentarily enjoying the soft, surprised chuckle that came from Michael Schmidt soon after. "How about Friday? Are you free Friday?" 

"If that's when you can go, I'll make it work," he assured me. "And will you need a ride? I don't know if there are any bus routes between here and there."

"I'll accept the ride. I get off of work at seven. No offense to you, but I don't want a stranger coming to my house or meeting me at my job. Would you be able to meet me at a local grocery store at eight?" I asked, to which he immediately agreed. I gave him the address to the little mart about ten minutes from my house and five from my job. 

"Alright, I'll meet you there at eight on Friday. Um, bring a jacket, there's no electricity there," he explained. "I'll see you then. Thank you again for agreeing... uh, do I call you Ms. Sterling?" 

"God no, you call me Josephine or Josie," I laughed, shaking my head. Ms. Sterling, being so close to the dreaded Mrs. Sterling, also brought back memories. Those memories, however, were easy to ignore, as Mrs. Sterling meant even less to me than Annabeth Skylar did. 

"Thank you, Josephi-- Josie," Schmidt restated, deciding his preferred way to address me as he spoke.

"So do I call you Michael?" I asked. "Or should I be more professional?" 

"Michael is fine," he replied, and I hummed. "Is there anything else you need to know? I have to get to work." 

"No, nothing. I should get to work as well," I admitted, straining so I could see the numbers on the clock ticking ever closer to eleven, which is when I needed to leave. 

"Alright, thank you. I'll see you then," Michael replied. 

"Yep," I concluded, "bye." He hung up after my voice faded, and I sat on the floor for a long time staring at the kitchen cabinets before I finally got up and went to take a cold shower-- using soap as shampoo.

(A/N: All following chapters will be in the present tense. This chapter is in past tense because that's how I started writing it and I didn't feel like changing it-- just being honest)

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