┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ⋆ ┊ ┊ ┊ ⋆ ┊ ┊

"The Strings That Made Me"

Before Ennard was Ennard, it was many things. Scraps. Eyes. Voices. Secrets.

Long ago, deep in the bowels of an abandoned Freddy Fazbear facility—a location never registered in any corporate document—there was a room sealed behind welded steel, rusted from decades of neglect. Inside, the animatronics that were too broken, too corrupted, or too possessed to be salvaged were dumped. They called it the “Parts Room.”

But they didn’t stay dead.

In that room, the spirits of children that had been murdered and discarded, their souls tethered to twisted endoskeletons, began to whisper. Each animatronic held part of a soul. Pieces of thoughts. Faces. Screams. Memories that didn’t belong to just one child… but many.

The agony mixed.

And from that pile of metal and grief… something woke up.

It started pulling itself together. Using wires like tendons. Scrap for a spine. Faces—borrowed, stolen, stitched—to smile with. It didn’t know what it was. But it remembered pain.

Each part it absorbed added another voice. Another scream. Another mind trapped inside a maze of rage and confusion.

They tried to control it. They tried to deactivate it.

But you can’t kill what doesn’t understand death.

It escaped through the vents—watching, waiting, mimicking. It wanted one thing:

A skin to wear. A way out. A body.

Ennard wasn’t built.

It became.

It’s not one animatronic. It’s all of them. A congregation of sorrow, wearing masks of joy. And when it speaks, it doesn’t talk in one voice—it talks in a chorus of every child it consumed.

It doesn’t want to kill for fun.

It wants to be real.

To feel.

And if you ever see a smiling clown-like face in the dark, dripping wires like veins, just know: you’re not looking at a machine. You’re looking at every broken soul it’s ever stolen… staring right back at you.