💰 Five Minute Fright: The Rake

"Sometimes, finding something shiny isn’t luck. It’s a warning."

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🎭 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.

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🚗 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 disappeared between laughter, spilled drinks, and the heat of too many bodies pressed into too small a space.

But eventually, the night wore on. Conversations slowed. People slumped onto couches, music grew quieter, and the party felt smaller, less alive. One of the quieter friends, leaning against the wall with a half-full cup in hand, muttered:

"You know… you should be careful of the Rake."

Laughter erupted. “What, that old creepy story?” someone teased. “Come on, seriously?”

The friend pressed on, voice low and insistent:

"It’s real. Hairless. Pale. Eyes black as coal. Long fingers that scrape walls, doors… anything. It watches. It waits. And if it fixes its gaze on you… well, you can’t unsee it. People go mad just from looking at it. And it follows… silently, impossibly fast."

They shrugged it off, rolling their eyes. The coin in a pocket seemed far more real than any myth.

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By 2 a.m., they were leaving. The rain had started, streaking the streets and making the asphalt slick. Tires hissed over puddles as they talked about what they’d do tomorrow—sleep in, brunch, errands, maybe a movie. Everything felt ordinary.

Then the tires hit a pothole. Hiss. Thump. Flat.

They got out. One friend knelt by the tire, crouched over the jack, fumbling with the tools. The rain stung their faces. Then… a chill ran down their spines. Hair rising on the back of their necks.

"Hello?" someone called into the empty street. No answer. Only silence, thick and wrong.

The friend grabbed their cellphone, turning on the flashlight. The beam swept across the street—and there it was. Hairless. Skin like dried parchment. Eyes black as coal. Fingers long enough to scrape the pavement. Its presence… it swallowed the light. The friends screamed, stumbling back into the car.

Doors slammed. Heartbeats thundering. Panic rising, someone hit record on their phone. The Rake clawed at the side of the car, sliding impossibly fast along the wet street. They slammed on the brakes, trying to shake it loose, tires skidding across the asphalt. Then, adrenaline pushing them, they sped off, swerving, rain hammering down.

They thought they’d lost it. For a moment, maybe just a moment, the street seemed empty.

Then, it was there. Right behind. Eyes black as night, limbs impossibly thin, following them home like it knew every turn, every shortcut.

Finally, the front door slammed behind them. Shadowed fingers seemed to reach for the car just before they bolted inside. One of the friends noticed the coin had slipped from a pocket, rolling under the rug, glinting innocently in the dim hallway light.

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🌄 The Aftermath

The next morning:

Deep gouges on the car, metal twisted and scraped

The front door dented, splintered wood jutting out like claws

No photos, no videos, nothing on any camera

The coin? Still sitting there, golden and untouched, like nothing happened.

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🎭 Nightly Storyteller Closing

They say some things you shouldn’t pick up. Some things aren’t meant to be yours. The gold coin is one of those things. It waits for a night, a mistake, a moment when the shadows are thick and the streets are empty. And when it moves, there’s no footage, no evidence—just the memory of fear, and the marks it leaves behind.

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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.

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