🪞 The Nightly Storyteller Presents: Friday the 13th: The Series



🎭 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 curse. Alongside their uncle’s colleague Jack, they set out to reclaim these artifacts before they destroy more lives.

The show thrived on atmosphere. Each cursed object turned ordinary desires—beauty, wealth, fame—into a trap. A camera that steals youth. A compact that feeds on vanity. A doll that kills. These weren’t just props; they were doorways into obsession and doom.

It wasn’t a series about escape. It was a series about inevitability.


---

🕯 Did You Know?

The series ran from 1987 to 1990 with 72 episodes.

The show’s writers later worked on The X-Files, carrying over the eerie, episodic style.

Stephen King praised the concept of cursed objects, which mirrored themes in some of his short stories.



---

🩸 Tidbits

The antique shop was filmed in Toronto, giving it a cold, shadowy atmosphere that felt like a character in itself.

Practical effects sold the terror—blood, claws, and cursed reflections felt tactile and raw.

Episodes often ended without a happy resolution; sometimes the price of reclaiming an object was too high.



---

📖 The Storyteller Chronicles — 

The Storyteller walked on, blissfully unaware of the eyes burning holes in the night, the silent agreement passing between Ravann and Korrath that some shadows were better left unspoken.

> Elyndor keeps its secrets well. Sometimes even from those who live within it.



The air shifted. A bitter cold swept in, sharp and metallic, like the taste of blood against iron. The trees groaned under no wind.

Then the forest broke.

A Wendigo—taller than Ravann, ribs like broken spears tearing through its flesh, eyes hollow and glowing with hunger—rushed from the dark. Its scream was a jagged blade across the night.

Before the Storyteller could react, claws raked his ribs. Heat and cold erupted together, blood spilling fast, his knees buckling beneath him.

Ravann roared, the earth trembling under his fury, as he slammed into the creature, fangs tearing. Korrath streaked in as shadow, his crimson eyes burning as he struck.

The Wendigo’s howl shook marrow. Trees splintered. Soil churned. The forest became a battlefield.

The Storyteller clutched his wound, his vision swimming, his own blood hot against his fingers. The world muted, muffled—like sinking beneath black water.

And then a whisper slithered up from the pit of his own chest. Not Ravann. Not Korrath. Not Elyndor.

His creature. His other self.

> “Bleed no more. Break the shell. Let me through.”



His breath stuttered. His hand—no, his claws—dug into the dirt. Skin split, bones cracked, reshaped. His scream twisted into a snarl as dark talons sprouted and his body warped.

Ravann froze for half a heartbeat. Korrath’s eyes narrowed.

The Storyteller rose, trembling, monstrous, his wound still leaking but his frame pulsing with new strength. The Wendigo turned, its hollow gaze settling on him.

And the true fight began.

To be continued…


---

🔗 Closing

Stick around. Subscribe. Share.

X (Twitter): @NightlyStoryTel

Instagram: @NightlyStoryteller

Bluesky: nightlystoryteller.bsky.

And if you dare… drop a comment and tell me your favorite cursed object from horror.
We’re just getting started—and things are about to get dark.

thenightlystoryteller.blogspot.com




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

💰 Five Minute Fright: The Rake

Image
"Sometimes, finding something shiny isn’t luck. It’s a warning." --- 🎭 Nightly Storyteller Introduction There’s a story I keep hearing, whispered in streets at night, passed along when no one’s looking. It’s about a gold coin, a simple thing that somehow carries a curse. Some call it a warning. Some call it temptation. Whatever it is… it always finds the right person. --- 🚗 The Story It was supposed to be a normal night. A group of friends were getting ready for a party—music spilling from one apartment, laughter from another. One of them spotted a gold coin glinting on the sidewalk outside their house. “Lucky find,” someone said, shoving it into a pocket, and they headed out. The party was alive. Drinks sloshed over tables, people sang along to the music at the top of their lungs, others danced with wild abandon, spinning and laughing in circles. Some played drinking games, roaring with victory or groaning in defeat. It was one of those nights where the hours d...
Read more

📼 Long Live the New Flesh: Videodrome & The Signal That Changed Everything

Image
📼 Long Live the New Flesh: Videodrome & The Signal That Changed Everything “The flesh is weak. But the signal? The signal is eternal.” These words haunted me—a prophecy that felt all too real. Even after the phone call ended, they echoed in my mind. I stared at the dimly lit screen in the dark room, the static still buzzing in my ears. "I warned you." Two words. No anger. Just finality. Like a file closing. A quiet click of a lock. 🔒 --- 📞 The Signal Reaches the Living Room A knock pulled me out of the haze. I opened the door, and there they were—Val, Rhett, and Danny. Pizza box and drinks in hand, ready for the movie night we had planned. But that ominous call had already rewritten the script. Val squinted at me. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “I didn’t,” I whispered. “But I heard one.” We moved into the living room and I told them everything—the voice, the warning, the static. Rhett leaned in, eyes locked. “It’s all connected. The calls. T...
Read more

The Doll and the Gold Coin: The Price of a Glimmer

Image
A cursed doll, a voice that whispers, and a debt that never dies. The dust on the doll was old. The eyes were older. But the thing beneath the dust, the chill in the porcelain—that was waiting. Some things aren’t lost. They follow. Elliot Granger’s fingers brushed against the porcelain cheek of the doll. Cold. Not the temperature of the air; the bone-deep, static cold of something that had been buried. Smooth. Fragile, yet somehow… alert. Its cracked glass eyes, milky and dead, caught the harsh late morning sun like tiny, twin portals. It sat alone on a patch of faded velvet, a queen on a collapsing throne at a dusty flea market stall. Beneath a scattering of tarnished brass and dried flowers, a flash of pure, unnatural gold caught his eye. A coin. He scooped it up. It felt warm, too warm, and surprisingly heavy, resting in his palm like a living organ. It hummed—a barely audible, low-frequency thrum that vibrated up his arm and settled in his teeth. Then a soft voice, like...
Read more