🕯️ The Storyteller Chronicles: Urban Legends Edition

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The Bandage Man

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🎙️ Monologue

They say you can smell death before you see it. That coppery sweetness laced with salt air—like the ocean and rot sharing a breath. It crawls into your lungs, settles in your bones. I’ve learned to trust that feeling. The weight of something watching just beyond the mist.

Because sometimes, it’s not your imagination.  
Sometimes, it’s what’s left of someone who shouldn’t be here.

And when the wind carries the soft rip of gauze…  
It’s already too late.

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📖 Urban Legend: The Bandage Man of Cannon Beach

The Bandage Man has haunted Oregon’s coast for decades—a tale passed around bonfires and whispered in backseats as waves crash against Highway 101.

It began in the 1950s, or so the locals say. A young couple parked along a cliffside road near Cannon Beach, sharing a moment of peace—or passion, depending on who’s telling it. The air turned cold. The radio hissed with static. Then came the smell: blood, salt, and decay.

Before they could react, something slammed against the truck bed. A heavy, ragged figure wrapped in bloody bandages began pounding on the windows. The man behind the wheel panicked, sped off toward town. But when they arrived, the Bandage Man was gone—leaving only scraps of rotten gauze on the tailgate.

Other sightings followed:

- Loggers and fishermen glimpsing a hunched figure near the cliffs.
- Hitchhikers swearing they picked up a man who vanished mid-ride, leaving behind the stench of death.
- Pets refusing to walk certain stretches of road after dark.

Some say he was a sawmill worker, mangled in a brutal accident and lost to the sea. Others believe he’s a ghost born of grief and rage, forever trapped in the bandages from his death.

No matter the version, the warnings are the same:  
If you smell rotting flesh on the wind and the air turns cold—  
Drive faster. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

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🧟‍♂️ The Storyteller Chronicles: The March of the Dead

The night was thick with the scent of rain and earth. The fire outside Val’s house had burned down to embers, shadows twisting along the walls like restless spirits. My phone buzzed.

A text.  
From the Mysterious Caller.

> “The skeleton horses are here for you. Follow them if you want the answers you seek.”

A low rumble echoed outside—the ground itself seemed to tremble. I looked out the window and saw them: skeletal horses, their bones glistening like wet marble beneath the moonlight. Atop the lead one sat a zombie, its eyes glowing faint blue. It raised one trembling arm and pointed directly at me.

Then, without a word, it turned toward the dark tree line.

“Uh… what the hell was that?” Val whispered, voice trembling.

Nyra stepped forward from the shadows, her eyes glowing crimson, pupils narrowing to slits. Her presence had that cold, metallic edge—the scent of iron and old earth. “What should we do?” she asked, voice low and steady, like a blade before it cuts.

I looked back at the horses—their hooves made no sound, only a soft crunch like bone grinding bone.  
“I’m going after them,” I said.

Nyra moved closer, smooth as liquid. The hum of her power raised the hairs on my arms. “That’s not a good idea,” she said, voice sharp as glass. “If we leave you, we won’t be able to save you again.”

I met her gaze. The night air buzzed through my skin like static. “If we’re going to find answers, this is the only way. You and Val—look for Rhett. I’ll meet you when I can.”

Her fangs caught the firelight as she exhaled, frustration tightening her features. “You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days,” she muttered. Then, quieter—almost reluctantly—  
“Be careful, Storyteller.”

Outside, the undead rider stopped near a massive oak—its bark pulsing faintly, like it was alive. The trunk split down the center, revealing a dark hollow glowing with sickly green light.

The zombie turned its skull, gesturing for me to follow.  
I stepped forward.

The air turned cold. Mist curled around my legs. The sound of the living world faded—replaced by whispers, low and hungry.

Zombies lined the path, their skin stretched thin and grey, eyes flickering like dying candles. They reached out with clawed hands, grasping at my coat.

One grabbed my wrist.  
Its fingers were icy and slick with rot.  
I snapped its arm—bone cracking like dry wood. It shrieked, falling back into the mass.

I kept walking.  
The stench of death and earth thickened.  
The skeletal hooves echoed ahead—guiding me deeper into whatever hell waited beyond that glowing tree.

And for the first time in a long while…  
I didn’t feel fear.  
I felt purpose.

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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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