🪓 “Echoes in the Pines”The Goatman — Nightly Storyteller Chronicles


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🎙️ The Nightly Storyteller’s Monologue

> “I’ve come to distrust the sound of my own voice.  
Sometimes, when the wind drags across the trees just right,  
I hear myself calling back — from deeper in the woods.  
It’s a voice that sounds almost like mine…  
but carries something hollow. Something hungry.  
They say the forest remembers every whisper —  
and some echoes learn to lie.  
What happens when your echo doesn’t just repeat you —  
but wants to replace you?”

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🐐 The Goatman: The Echo That Hunts

Every region has a name for it — Goatman, Popelick Monster, the Lake Worth Creature. Some claim it began as a man, a scientist who tried to fuse human and animal DNA in a forgotten government lab. Others whisper that it’s older — born from the wild itself, a guardian turned bitter, a spirit corrupted by mimicry.

In some Appalachian tales, it’s said the Goatman was once a forest echo that grew teeth — a sound that learned to hunt.

Witnesses describe horns curling like ancient bone, eyes that glow like embers, and a stench of rot thick enough to make the air taste metallic. But what truly terrifies is its voice.

It calls from the woods in tones you know — the laughter of a friend, a lover’s cry for help, or your own voice pleading to come closer. By the time you realize it’s a trick, you’re already off the road and into its territory.

The Goatman doesn’t kill for hunger.  
It kills to become.

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⚔️ The Nightly Storyteller Chronicles: “The One Who Echoes”

Rain poured through the canopy in cold sheets, drumming on the overturned car. Steam rose from the crushed hood as Val stumbled out, clutching the flare gun. The night reeked of gasoline and wet earth.

Nyra stood a few feet away, pale and unbothered by the rain. Blood ran down her cheek in a crimson trail that didn’t belong to her. Her eyes glowed faintly red as she surveyed the dark tree line.

> “Whatever flipped us,” Val said, voice trembling, “it knew where to hit.”  
> “And it’s still here,” Nyra replied, her tone sharp, predatory.

Thunder rolled — then the forest answered back with a crash. A boulder tore through the air, smashing into the dirt road, spraying mud over both of them.

Val ducked behind the car, heartbeat hammering in her throat. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her magic bag of orbs. Light bled through the seams — vibrant and alive, each sphere pulsing like a trapped star.

> “Come on, come on…” she whispered.

Another rock slammed into the car, caving in the door. The metal screamed in protest.

Then came the sound — deep, resonant, and wrong. A bleating growl that echoed through the trees like something wearing a man’s voice.

The Goatman emerged from the dark — eight feet of muscle and matted fur, horns glistening with rain. Its eyes gleamed amber beneath the storm, and every exhale came out as a hiss of steam.

It moved faster than anything that size should.  
Nyra darted forward, but the Goatman’s arm swung like a battering ram, catching her midair and throwing her into the wrecked car. The impact rang like thunder.

> “Nyra!” Val screamed.

She pulled out one of the energy orbs. Electricity crawled over her palm, the sphere thrumming like a heartbeat. She drew her arm back and threw it.

The orb sliced through the rain, leaving a trail of ozone and light like a comet’s scream. It exploded against the Goatman’s head in a burst of kinetic brilliance. A shockwave rippled through the clearing, scattering leaves and flattening grass. The Goatman stumbled, smoke coiling from its fur — then turned its head slowly toward Val.

Its mouth curled into a crooked grin.

> “Val…” it said, perfectly mimicking her own voice.

Her stomach dropped. Every hair on her neck rose.

Nyra was already up, fangs bared, eyes blazing.  
She sprinted through the rain, closing the distance in a blur. Her punch landed square on the creature’s jaw — the impact cracked like a gunshot.

The Goatman roared, clutching its face, then charged.  
Their fight was a blur of claws, fists, and lightning. Mud exploded under their feet, splattering Val’s face with the copper tang of earth and blood. Trees splintered.

Val’s phone began to ring — Storyteller.  
She snatched it up with shaking fingers.

> “We’ve been attacked!” she shouted. “Something—something huge! We don’t know where we are!”  
> “Val?” The Storyteller’s voice came through, distorted by static. “I can barely hear you—”

Before she could respond, Nyra shouted across the chaos:

> “Storyteller! Use your scarab — it can find us!”

The scarab — forged from obsidian and memory — pulsed with the power to trace voices through storms.

Val could barely breathe. The Goatman roared again, its horns clipping the car as it lunged for Nyra. Sparks flew.

Then the air changed.  
The pressure dropped.  
The rain seemed to pause.

A low hum rose from nowhere — ancient and steady.  
Val looked up to see the air folding, light bending into a spinning circle of molten gold. A portal.

The Goatman froze, nostrils flaring.  
The wind pulled toward the portal like gravity itself was shifting.

Then a figure stepped through the light — coat trailing, eyes burning with otherworldly calm.

The Nightly Storyteller.

Val gasped. “You—how did you—”

> “You called,” he said simply, rain dripping from his coat.

The Goatman’s growl deepened. It scraped a hoof against the wet asphalt, lowering its head.

It charged.

The ground shook. Trees shivered.  
The smell of ozone filled the clearing.

The Storyteller stood motionless. The scarab on his chest flared with blue light, pulsing with each heartbeat.

> “I’ve heard your echo before,” he murmured.

The Goatman was almost on him when the scarab erupted — unleashing a blinding white flare. The forest exploded with light, swallowing the storm, the car, and the creature’s roar.

And then—  
nothing.

Only the whisper of rain.

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

Email: thenightlystorytellerblog@gmail.com

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

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