Nightly Storyteller Chronicles: The Faculty




The Clatchi drag me through collapsing corridors, their nails digging into my arms like hooks. My breath rattles, each step stolen. The sterile halls no longer smell of safety—they reek of iron, blood, and something far fouler. Rivets snap past my face, slicing the air, as the world itself buckles around us. Are they rescuing me… or delivering me to the slaughter?

It’s the same question The Faculty asked back in 1998. A slick mix of teen angst and alien paranoia, the film leaned into the idea that the people closest to you could already be compromised. Teachers, classmates, even friends—who can you trust when the infection spreads one host at a time? It was a fun, bloody riff on Invasion of the Body Snatchers with a youthful, rebellious twist.

And here, with the Clatchi hauling me through a dying world, I feel that same paranoia claw at my mind. Their grip is bruising, their silence suffocating. For a moment, I swear I see a smile flicker across one of their faces as the ceiling caves in. Maybe The Faculty wasn’t just about aliens in disguise. Maybe it was about the fear of losing yourself—and never knowing if the people beside you are still truly themselves.

The ground quakes. A shriek splits the air. The Threxil is upon us. Seraphine skids to a stop, feather in hand, light cracking open reality itself. A portal tears wide, and for an instant, hope burns in my chest. We dive forward—

—but the Threxil’s claws slash through the portal’s edge as I leap.

To be continued…


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