Screams and Memories

The invitation came sealed in wax — black, stamped with a sigil shaped like a broken crown. When Val slid the envelope across the table, my chest tightened. I already knew who it was from before I opened it. Inside, written in clean, deliberate script: You are cordially invited to dinner with Silas Vorne. A man must have a name. Your chauffeur, Mr. Harris, will arrive at midnight. The name almost made me laugh. “Harris.” As generic as a fast-food menu. But when I looked up, the man in the suit — Harris — didn’t blink. His tie was immaculate, his posture stiff… and the faint scratch on his neck pulsed red like something had clawed him in a dream. “I appreciate the offer,” I said, sliding the card back into the envelope. “But I work tomorrow.” Val didn’t even hesitate. “Your job burned down, remember?” she said flatly. “We can go.” The air seemed to thin when Harris adjusted his cufflinks and replied, “If you leave now, you’ll arrive an hour before sunup.” He said...

Monologue Some doors should never be opened. You hear the knock, you feel the weight behind it, and your instincts scream: don’t answer. But curiosity, dread, pride — they always win. Funny thing is… I remember another door. One I stepped through at the very beginning of this journey. I didn’t know then that the air smelled wrong, or that the quiet wasn’t silence but something waiting. Tonight, when the knock came again, it felt like that same door. Same chill. Same whisper: “You should have stayed out.” And yet… here I am. --- Review: Alien vs Predator Say what you will about Paul W.S. Anderson, but Alien vs Predator scratched an itch no one thought Hollywood would dare: putting two cinematic monsters in the same pit and shaking the walls until something broke. It’s fan service turned survival horror: explorers, mercenaries, and scientists caught in the middle of an eternal hunt. The Predator clan uses Earth as a testing ground; the Aliens breed as weapons. Humanity? Just ...

Monologue The house was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet you welcome after a long day, but the thick, humming silence that presses on your eardrums and makes every creak sound like a warning. I lit a candle, though the power was still on. It wasn’t about the light—it was about the warmth, the flicker, the illusion of safety. Shadows crawled across the walls, stretching into things I tried not to name. That’s when I heard it. A soft melody—childlike, off-key, like a skipping rope rhyme whispered through the vents. “One… two… Freddy’s coming for you…” The voice was high, brittle, and carried an echo, as though it came from everywhere and nowhere at once. I froze, breath snagged in my chest. The sound moved closer, circling me. Then, just beneath it, I caught the pulse of something deeper—a low, rolling rumble like waves dragging chains across the ocean floor. I didn’t need to hear the rest. My heart had already matched the rhythm. Every horror film had warned me: the song is ...

Monologue They say memory fades with age. But some memories don’t fade—they rot. I remember the 1970s, or at least fragments of them. The air always smelled like gasoline and cigarette smoke, like someone had poured tension into the streets and set it alight. Radios crackled rebellion while televisions flickered with static ghosts between channels. And somewhere in those half-formed recollections, I see a house. A house I never lived in. Its windows glared at me like eyes, curtains fluttering though no breeze stirred. A boy waited in the doorway, a toy soldier clenched so tightly the chipped paint crumbled between his fingers. “Don’t you remember me?” he whispered, his voice wet, like water dripping into a sink. But I didn’t. I don’t. The 1970s didn’t just bring horror into theaters—it brought it into our homes, our cars, our heads. And the monsters it unleashed have never left. Top 5 Horror Films of the 1970s 1. The Exorcist (1973) The 70s smelled of incense a...

--- Monologue I remember a house. But not my house. The wallpaper pulsed with flowers I don’t recall planting. The stairs sighed beneath my weight, though I never walked them. And in the doorway stood a boy. He held a chipped toy soldier in his fist. His smile stretched wider than it should have. “Don’t you remember me?” he asked. But I didn’t. I don’t. Even now, when I try to summon his face, it blurs—like a painting smeared with water. The more I chase the memory, the further it runs. And yet… I know I’ve been inside that house before. I know the boy knew me. I just don’t know why. Perhaps it’s better that way. --- Movie Review: House (1977) Few films manage to be both nightmare and dream at once, but Nobuhiko Obayashi’s House does exactly that. On the surface, it’s simple: a group of schoolgirls visit a country house, only to be consumed—sometimes literally—by its secrets. But beneath, it’s surreal, experimental, and unhinged. The film breaks every rule of horror and inv...

The Nightly Storyteller’s Monologue They say nothing good happens after midnight. But I’ve learned the truth runs deeper than that—it’s not about the hour, it’s about the silence. The later it gets, the more the world empties, and the more room there is for something else to step in. At 11, the drunks stumble home. At midnight, the restless toss in bed. By 1, the streets grow too quiet, shadows stretch longer, and every creak feels alive. By 2, even the bravest stop answering calls. And by 3—the witching hour—you don’t just hear the house breathing, you hear it listening. So when I tell you that the dark things wait until late to make their move, believe me. They don’t hunt when the world is wide awake. They wait for the silence, for the gaps between seconds, for the moments when your heart beats too loud in your chest. That’s when the bad things happen. And they always, always know who’s still awake. --- Series Review: Midnight Mass Mike Flanagan’s Midnight Mass is not jus...

The Nightly Storyteller’s Monologue Blood is not just life—it’s memory. Every drop carries whispers of what came before: hunger, pain, desire. It clings to walls, to floors, to teeth. And when it dries, it does not forget—it waits. Sometimes I think I can hear it calling to me in the silence. A slow drip… drip… drip… reminding me that no matter how much we hide behind laughter, behind masks, behind the fragile veil of sanity—blood always finds its way back into the story. --- Movie Review: Bordello of Blood Ah, the mid-90s. A time when horror was still basking in the glow of camp, gore, and that deliciously sleazy humor that only Tales from the Crypt could deliver. Bordello of Blood (1996), directed by Gilbert Adler, is an unapologetic cocktail of vampire debauchery, one-liners, and a healthy dose of cheesy practical effects. The story follows Rafe Guttman (Dennis Miller, of all people) stumbling into a vampire-run brothel after a young woman goes missing. What unfolds is p...

🎭 Monologue The Storyteller leans forward, voice low, as though the words themselves might cut if spoken too loud: > “Cursed objects are never really silent. A mirror whispers when the room goes still. A ring hums faintly against your skin, like a heartbeat that isn’t yours. Even a pocket watch, if you hold it close enough, ticks out more than time—it ticks out hunger. I’ve learned to ask myself one question when I touch something old, something passed down: who owned this before me, and what did it take from them? Because sometimes… you don’t inherit an object. Sometimes the object inherits you.” --- 📺 Horror Series Review: Friday the 13th: The Series Forget Jason and his hockey mask—this show had nothing to do with Crystal Lake. Instead, it spun an anthology of terror around cursed antiques, objects tainted by a deal with the devil himself. Micki and Ryan, two cousins who inherit an antique shop, discover that nearly every item sold from their store carries a dark cu...

🎭 The Nightly Storyteller’s Monologue The room was quiet, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was whispering in the dark. Not words — no, whispers have rhythm, intention. This was softer, like breath pressing against my ear without a mouth behind it. I turned on every light. Still, shadows gathered where they shouldn’t, crowding the corners, huddling under furniture, clinging to the edges of my vision. My reflection in the window smiled a moment after I stopped. My hands trembled, but not from fear — from the sinking realization that maybe the reflection wasn’t mine anymore. What if the voice I hear when I think is not me? What if the thoughts that comfort me are placed there, soft pillows hiding knives? I tried to sleep, but the air in the room felt too heavy, pressing down like a second blanket. And as my eyes closed, I swear I saw the shape of a man sitting at the foot of my bed — silent, waiting — patient as time itself. I no longer ask if I’m dreaming. I onl...

🎙️ Monologue Elyndor. Even the name feels heavy, ancient, carved into the marrow of the world itself. Its skies bend and shimmer as if the stars above are closer than they should be, whispering secrets through their glow. The air here tastes sharper, like pine needles crushed between your teeth, and every step echoes longer than it should—as though the ground remembers me. But I wonder… how long will I be here? A guest? A prisoner? A wanderer bound to a necklace that hums like a heartbeat whenever I think too deeply about home? What will become of my life if Elyndor is no longer a stop on my journey but the destination itself? I can’t shake the thought: maybe I belong here. Or worse… maybe I always did. --- 🎥 Movie Review: Wolf (1994) Wolf, directed by Mike Nichols, is a slow-burning mix of gothic romance, psychological drama, and werewolf mythos—though not the kind you might expect. Starring Jack Nicholson as Will Randall and Michelle Pfeiffer as Laura Alden, the film is...

Monologue The room was silent after everyone left. Val gone. Korrath and Ravann waiting outside. But the scarab wasn’t silent. "You feel it now, don’t you?" it whispered, pressing heat into my chest. "Each step pulls you closer. To me. To what you’re meant to become." And then—like grease popping in a pan—the voices came. “Relax, man,” Tobito said in my head, his tortilla-shell voice cracking with cheer. “You’re just leveling up, like salsa with extra spice!” The Refried Avenger chuckled, smooth as melted cheese. “Yeah, bro, destiny’s easier to swallow with hot sauce.” The scarab hissed. “They are echoes. Fragments. They don’t belong here. Only I do.” I rubbed my temples. The tacos were gone. And yet… they weren’t. --- Movie Review – Blade (1998) Before superheroes conquered the box office, there was Blade. Half horror, half action, and all attitude, it gave us Wesley Snipes as the Daywalker—a vampire hunter caught between two worlds. With sword, stakes,...

--- Monologue The night smelled like smoke, cilantro, and gunpowder. The tacos wouldn’t shut up—arguing with each other, their voices bouncing around the room like a bad mariachi band. One crunched with every word, the other dripped grease onto the floor, sizzling like acid. The necklace pressed cold against my chest, its voice sliding into my mind. "You think this is funny? You think survival is a joke? I chose you, and you are not ready." The tacos fired back: "Ignore the shiny creep! We’re the only friends you need, filled with beans, cheese, and eternal wisdom!" I gritted my teeth. Hunger and madness tasted the same tonight. --- Movie Review – Army of Darkness (1992) Sam Raimi’s Army of Darkness takes the Evil Dead franchise and throws it into a blender of horror, slapstick, and medieval chaos. Ash Williams (Bruce Campbell) lands in the Middle Ages, armed with a chainsaw and his “boomstick,” tasked with retrieving the Necronomicon. Naturally, he scre...

Opening Monologue The room smelled of damp wood and stale dust—like a basement long forgotten. I don’t remember walking here, yet here I stand. The walls pulse faintly with shadows, and the silence is so heavy it feels like it’s pressing on my chest. “You should be grateful,” the necklace whispers, its voice coiling in my ear like smoke. “Grateful? For what? For waking up in another place I can’t explain?” My hands tighten into fists. “For surviving. Many don’t.” A shiver cuts down my spine, and I can see my breath in the air though the room isn’t cold. My reflection in the cracked glass ahead shows my clenched hands glowing faintly—wrapped in tendrils of purple energy. The power hums like a swarm of bees beneath my skin. “I don’t even know what I’m surviving anymore,” I say, but the necklace only chuckles—a sound like broken wind chimes in a storm. --- Movie Review – The Pit (1981) The Pit is a strange little gem of Canadian horror. On the surface, it’s a coming-of-age sto...

Monologue: The Necklace’s Voice Darkness hummed inside me, a low vibration crawling under my skin. I stared at my hands, flexing them, remembering claws, slashes, destruction. What are you becoming? The necklace’s voice pulsed in my skull, like whispers behind a locked door. “I don’t know,” I muttered, though my throat was dry. “I felt power. I felt… hunger. But then I was back. Just me.” Not just you, it hissed, vibrating with heat against my chest. You are the Storyteller, but also the creature. Two halves of the same whole. I pressed my palm against the scarab, its surface warm, almost alive. “Then tell me what happened to me.” Silence. Only the sound of my own breathing. And I knew the necklace would not give up all its secrets. Not yet. --- Movie Review: Christine (1983) John Carpenter’s Christine, based on Stephen King’s novel, asks a simple question: what if your car didn’t just break down on you—but hunted you down instead? The film follows Arnie Cunningham (Keith G...

The Monologue (Val’s Voice) The world around me was rubble. Smoke clung to the air, stinging my eyes, while glass crunched under my boots with every trembling step. The fight between those two creatures—my friend, and the monster the Clerk had become—had torn my apartment into something unrecognizable. Walls split open. The floor sagged. The smell of burning wires filled the air. I couldn’t stop shaking. I had seen the Storyteller morph back into himself, broken and gasping, and Nyra lying hurt beside him. Only Kaelen and I still stood ready to fight. I looked at the twisted shadows cast by the flickering fires and thought: if this is what two of them could do, what chance did we ever have? --- Movie Review: Carrie (1976) Brian De Palma’s Carrie, based on Stephen King’s first published novel, is one of the most iconic horror films of the 1970s. It’s a story soaked in trauma, rage, and repression—culminating in one of cinema’s most unforgettable finales. Sissy Spacek’s portr...