Five Minute Fright: The Coin of Gettysburg



[Intro – The Nightly Storyteller Speaks]

Some say belief fades in the light of reason.
That logic shields us from superstition and keeps the darkness where it belongs—behind us.
But belief… is patient.
It waits in the quiet places, ready to remind us that not everything can be explained.


---

[The Story]

Dr. Paul and Melissa Bennett were both science teachers—married, methodical, and proudly skeptical. They didn’t believe in ghosts, omens, or anything that couldn’t be proven by observation and evidence.

When summer break arrived, they loaded their RV, brought along their black Labrador, Murphy, and planned a road trip through Civil War sites. They wanted to see the landscapes they’d only shown students in textbooks—to experience history with their own eyes.

At a truck stop outside Gettysburg, Paul filled the RV’s tank. Something caught the light in the gravel below the pump. A small gold coin—smooth, unmarked, and strangely warm to the touch.

“Probably someone’s souvenir,” he muttered, pocketing it.

They drove through the Pennsylvania countryside as night fell, the air thick with the scent of pine and rain-soaked soil. The windows were open, letting the night sounds in—crickets, frogs, the low hum of the highway.

When they pulled off near a wooded clearing, Murphy began to growl. His hackles rose, his tail stiff.

Paul frowned. “What’s wrong, boy?”

The growl deepened. Then, from beyond the headlights, came a slow shuffling sound.

Melissa’s flashlight beam cut across the darkness—and caught the outline of a man in a Union uniform, standing impossibly still, his face obscured by shadow.

Paul waved. “Hey there! Sorry if we’re—”

The figure stepped forward into the light. His face was half gone—skin torn away to reveal bone and blackened sinew.

Melissa screamed.

Shapes began to move behind him—dozens of them. Soldiers, uniforms tattered, bodies twisted. Some crawled, dragging themselves by their elbows. Others limped forward on shattered limbs.

Paul grabbed Melissa’s hand, yanking her toward the RV. Murphy barked frantically, backing up the steps.

The engine sputtered. Died.

A rotting hand shot through the open driver’s window and clamped onto Paul’s shoulder. He yelled, jerking free. Melissa swung a frying pan, the clang echoing in the small space. The hand withdrew, leaving behind the stench of rot and earth.

They raced to close the windows, the moaning outside growing louder, closer. Shadows moved past the headlights—faces, eyes, uniforms, all wrong.

Something pounded on the passenger door. Another hand clawed at the side. The entire RV rocked with each blow.

Melissa dragged the mattress off the frame and shoved it against the bedroom door. Murphy whimpered, pressed against her legs. Paul held her close as the sound of fists, boots, and bone echoed against the thin metal walls.

They didn’t sleep. They didn’t move.
They just listened—until the banging faded into the dawn.

When sunlight finally streamed through the curtains, they stumbled outside, trembling and pale. A passing truck driver stopped, concerned by the battered RV.

“You two alright?” he asked.

Paul nodded weakly. “We… we saw something. You wouldn’t believe us.”

The driver’s eyes drifted downward—toward the ground, where something had rolled from Paul’s pocket.

The gold coin.

He picked it up, frowned, and tossed it back onto the dirt.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “You saw them.”

Melissa froze. Paul stared. The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of gunpowder and smoke.

And just like that, their world—the one built on proof and logic—no longer felt safe.


---

[Outro – The Nightly Storyteller Returns]

Belief can’t be measured or weighed.
But it can be found—sometimes in the dirt, sometimes in the dark,
and sometimes… in the glint of a gold coin you should’ve left where it lay.

So if you ever find one shining in the night—
walk away.


---

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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 dark.

thenightlystoryteller.blogspot.com


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 dark.





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