(A/N: A friend of mine sent this to me a few days ago. She was very concerned, and wanted my advice. I told her that since the following events had happened so long ago, bringing it to law enforcement probably would not do much good. She agreed. So, I advised her to post it on the blog she and her brother run. She didn't want to. So I offered to post it here instead, so that at least the story gets told. Everything from here on out is copied and pasted from the emails that Emma Cost has sent me, unless stated otherwise. I have also been asked by Emma to give this warning. "This story is not for the faint of heart. Please read with discretion". As I will be reading the entirety of this journal for the first time as Emma sends me the pieces, I am not entirely sure what that warning entails. I will try to remember to post trigger warnings at the beginning of chapters if need be. Please bear with me. ~Ruby)

The following are entries from a journal found in the hidden back room of an old restaurant. I have typed them as accurately as I could, including spelling mistakes and the like.

I came across it during an attempt to gut the building in order transform it into a recording studio. Unfortunately, the building was in such a state of disrepair that it needed to be torn down. As I type this, the construction crew is demolishing what remains of Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria.

Before we decided to tear it down, I had been inside, breaking down some of the walls to see if there was any way to salvage the old place. As I was chipping away at one of the walls, I noticed that something wasn't quite right about it. Behind it was another wall, as if this one had been built over another. As I continued to chip away at it, I eventually uncovered an old, old door. I broke away the brick until I thought I could open the door. It seemed to be locked from the inside. So I did what any normal person would do.

I took my sledge hammer to it. I managed to break it open, and what awaited me was the foulest stench I could have ever imagined. My eyes watered from the revolting, pungent odor as I stepped through, pulling my shirt up over my nose. It didn't help much. In the dim light from where I'd come, I could make out some basic features of what seemed to be a repair or break room. A few lockers lined the far wall. There were no windows, and a few tables were tossed haphazardly about. I pulled out my phone, gagging at the stench of the room once more, then stepped out to turn on my phone's flashlight. After catching my breath, I stepped back in, shining my flashlight around the room- and gagging once more. What I had been unable to see before was a spray of bright red completely spattering the walls and floor. Dried up pools of the substance lay smeared along the concrete, all over the tables and the lockers. I told myself it was only a paint job gone wrong, but I knew in my heart that something entirely different had really gone wrong. The stench told me that much. As much as I can say that I have a strong stomach (and I do), I can't honestly tell you that that room wasn't dirtier when I left than when I came in. I nearly bolted, but something caught my eye. An old, tattered, blood stained composition notebook lay on the floor not too far from me. Something about it drew me in, and I picked it up, nearly hurling again at the crusty feeling of dried blood in my hand. I stepped out into the fresh air of the hallway and opened the book, finding that the pages, though faded, were not too badly damaged. I could make out most of the writing on the first page. My eyes widened at the date.

Thursday, March 6, 1975

1975? That was 40 years ago! How long had this room been hidden away, the terrible secrets left to be forgotten? What bothered me most was the handwriting. It seemed to be that of a child. Had a child been murdered in this room? I read the first line. Vincent. Age 10. I swallowed. 10 years old. I felt my eyes begin to water and I blinked rapidly. I scanned the page, reading about this boy's life- until I heard footsteps coming towards me.I quickly closed the book, slipping it into my bag before looking to see my brother coming down the hall towards me. He agreed that something terrible had happened in that room- but we agreed to keep it between us. If it happened that long ago, there was surely nothing we could do about it. Besides, the construction crew would be there in a few days to demolish the building- we had also agreed that the building was unsalvageable. So we headed home.

Once I got home and showered thoroughly, I had a chance to properly read through the journal. Turns out, my initial thoughts were wrong. As I read further into his story, I discovered something. Vincent wasn't the victim.

He was the one responsible for it all.