THE NIGHTLY STORYTELLER CHRONICLES: King Kong (1933) — Beauty, the Beast, and the Bat

The Storyteller Speaks: Strength is Not Always Power

Have you ever been humbled by a softball? Not fear. Not magic. Not a monster clawing at your ribs or a cursed necklace draining your soul. No, I mean an actual softball. Repeatedly. At high velocity. The kind that leaves a deep, throbbing ache that hums long after the impact.

Today’s lesson? Pain can be productive. And apparently, Val used to be a hell of a hitter.

Scene: Morning at the Abandoned Gym

The harsh, anemic glow of the fluorescent lights struggled to pierce the gloom, flickering above us like dying stars. Thick motes of dust, illuminated by the weak shafts of gray sunlight, danced lazily in the stale, metallic air that clung to our throats. The scent of damp concrete and forgotten sweat hung heavy in the silence.

Val stepped up to the line, the cool, smooth grip of the aluminum bat a familiar weight in her gloved hands. Her eyes, slitted and sharp as a cat's, narrowed, focusing on the target. Her stance was perfect—a coiled spring of muscle and intent, balanced on the scuffed gym floor. I could already taste the metallic tang of dread and feel the familiar, blossoming ache of the next hit before it even landed.

Nyra stood behind her, a crooked, knowing grin stretching her lips. Her voice, a low murmur, was raspy against the quiet hum of the lights, almost a purr. “He needs to feel real pain if we’re going to shake that necklace’s grip on him.”

I gritted my teeth, the muscles in my jaw tight, bracing myself. Again. The air whooshed, then a sharp, bruising thud across my ribs, stealing my breath. The sound was sickeningly dull.

Again. A stinging slap against my left shoulder, hot and immediate.

Again. The sickening crack against my jaw, sending a jolt of white-hot pain through my teeth.

“This is insane,” I muttered, my voice hoarse with pain. “This isn't training. This is abuse.”

Val didn’t say much. She let the clean, ringing sound of aluminum against worn leather do the talking. There was no malice in her swings, no visible anger. Just a relentless, unwavering purpose that chilled me more than any fury.

Nyra watched in silence, her gaze unreadable, then turned, her movements fluid and quiet as she walked toward a dusty duffel bag in the far corner. The canvas was grimy, almost indistinguishable from the shadowed floor. Inside, I heard the faint clink of metal as she pulled out a modified bat, its surface glinting dully, etched with intricate, ancient-looking symbols, laced with dark, tarnished silver.

She tossed it to Val, the heavy thud as it landed in her palm echoing in the vast, empty space. “In case he turns again. You’re plan B.”

Val looked at the ominous weapon, its silver catching a sliver of the harsh light, then her gaze flickered to me, her expression unreadable. She said nothing. That silence, that unspoken judgment in her eyes, hurt worse than any of the blows she'd landed. It was a cold, precise jab straight to the heart.

The Storyteller's Ultimatum

“Enough,” I growled, my voice raw and strained. “No more training until you tell me the truth, Nyra. What did you mean when you said the scientist created you? Why did you bite me?”

Her eyes shifted, the teasing spark extinguishing completely, leaving a haunted blankness in their place. For a long while, the only sound was the creaking of rusted pipes above, like a forgotten moan, and my own heavy, ragged breathing.

Then, finally, she sat down on the dusty floor, motioned for us to do the same. The grit of the concrete felt rough beneath my palms.

“I loved someone once,” she began, her voice soft, a fragile whisper, as if each word tugged on something raw and exposed inside her. “He made me feel like I wasn’t just a freak or a weapon. He made me feel... real. Warm.”

She paused, her gaze distant, seeing something far away.

“The scientist came to our town. Said he was paying for volunteers. No one wanted to go. Then people started disappearing. One by one. Including the man I loved.”

My jaw clenched, a tight knot of anger forming in my gut.

“We attacked his lab when we found out. He had monsters guarding it. Chimera-like things. Mismatched parts, their skin slick and mottled, their eyes glinting in the dim, chemical-fumed light. The smell of chemicals and burned flesh was overpowering, a metallic, acrid stench that clawed at my throat. And behind them, I found my love. Barely breathing. Still chained to one of his tables.”

Her voice broke for the first time, a choked sound, sharp and painful.

“I got to him. I kissed him. He smiled. And then he was gone. That rage, that helplessness—it changed me. I wasn’t the same after. I bit you because I was scared. Terrified I’d lose again.”

A Beast with a Heart: King Kong (1933)

Later, I sat alone, still aching, every muscle protesting, still processing her story. A TV flickered in the background, playing King Kong (1933). The stop-motion marvel I had seen dozens of times felt different now. Raw. Personal. It felt like a mirror.

Kong wasn’t just a monster. He was a being ripped from his home, paraded for profit, misunderstood and provoked until he had no choice but to fight. He wasn’t just a creature. He was a warning. The desperate roar from the screen felt like Nyra’s pain.

A beast with emotion. With loss. With loyalty.

Did you know that in the original cut of King Kong, the Empire State Building scene caused mass emotional reactions in theaters? People wept. For the ape. Not the humans. Their collective sobs a testament to his tragic humanity.

Did you know the scream of Kong was created by combining a lion's roar and a tiger's growl slowed down and played backward? The deep, guttural sound, filled with a primal sorrow, resonated through the room.

And that Fay Wray, who played Ann Darrow, once claimed she had “the tallest, darkest leading man in Hollywood”? She meant Kong. A giant, shadowy figure, yet so profoundly human in his suffering.

Watching Kong swat down biplanes, the tinny buzz of their engines sounding like angry insects against his mighty roars, I couldn’t help but see Nyra in him. And maybe... me. Torn between instincts and identity.

The Real Power

Val came in quietly and sat beside me, the floorboards creaking softly under her weight. We watched the end together. Kong plummeting. Silence. Then that line:

“It wasn’t the airplanes. It was beauty killed the beast.”

Val turned to me. Her voice was steady, a quiet force. “I don’t think it was beauty. I think it was betrayal.”

She wasn’t wrong. The truth of it settled heavy in the air between us.

She stood up, hand on the bat, her fingers tracing the cool aluminum. “You ready to try again?”

I nodded, a newfound resolve hardening in my chest.

For the first time, I wanted to be stronger. Not because I feared losing control. But because someone believed I still had a choice.

Stick around. Subscribe. Share.

• X (Twitter): @NightlyStoryTel

• Threads / Instagram: @NightlyStoryteller

• Bluesky:nightlystoryteller.bsky.social

And if you dare… drop a comment and tell me your favorite scary movie, urban legend, or horror memory.

We’re just getting started—and things are about to get darker.

thenightlystoryteller.blogspot.com