📖 MARKED CHRONICLES: The Glass of Echoes

-

ARTIFACT INVOCATION

The Storyteller’s hand hovered above the cracked glass, fingers trembling—not from fear, but recognition.  
The shard radiated cold, humming with the memory of trapped breaths and severed screams.  

When he lifted it, the Library reacted instantly:  
- Shelves bent inward.  
- Reading lamps flickered like frightened fireflies.  
- Ancient tomes snapped shut on their own.  

A whisper curled through the aisles:  
“Careful, Storyteller. You don’t know what it’s capable of. Not fully. It sees everything.”  

Ledger Entry 14,092  
- Artifact: Glass of Echoes  
- Status: Activated  
- Subject: Ghost hunter, Ashwood Lane  
- Note: Record unstable. Reader implicated.  

The Chronicle began.  

---

INTRO — The Ghost Hunter
He was a legend online.  
A ghost hunter turned influencer—millions of followers watching his every dare, every EVP he claimed to capture.  

- His trademark black‑rimmed glasses glinted even in darkness.  
- A serpent‑shaped tattoo twisted around his arm, ink shifting faintly when no one touched it.  
- And always, the scarab necklace—its stone eyes blinking in the camera light, glowing amber when he spoke of dangerous places.  

His latest video was doing record numbers when a new comment appeared:  
“Go to Ashwood Lane. Bad things happened there. Bad things still happen.”  

He laughed. His crew laughed.  
The algorithm favored boldness.  
So he went.  

The house had been waiting.  

---

THE HOUSE — Already in the Library
The Library whispered as the Storyteller turned a page:  
“This house… already cataloged. But its record is unfinished.”  

The house at Ashwood Lane was wrong from the driveway.  
- Sight: Windows stared like blind eyes, curtains shifting without wind.  
- Sound: The porch creaked under steps not their own.  
- Smell: Mildew, rot, and a copper sting like old blood.  
- Touch: The doorknob felt warm—as if someone had just let go.  

Inside, the walls peeled in layers like rotting skin, revealing older photographs and scratched‑in prayers.  
Symbols branded into the beams pulsed faintly, alive.  

The Storyteller coughed, muttering:  
“Dust. Or perhaps not dust at all.”  
The Library disagreed—lights flickering in warning.  
The scarab necklace warmed against his chest, glowing amber.  

Ledger Entry 14,093  
- Location: Ashwood Lane House  
- Status: Containment breached  
- Souls: 6  
- Note: Scarabs hum. Storyteller coughs. Reader observed.  

---

THE CONTACT
The ghost hunter removed his glasses, snapping one lens free—the Glass of Echoes—and shouted:  
“Spirits of Ashwood, show yourselves! Let me see what you hide!”  

The air tightened like a closing fist.  
The glass vibrated, showing a bloody vision in its fractured surface.  
His remaining lens fogged from the inside.  
The serpent tattoo burned crimson.  
The scarab necklace pulsed, shifting from amber to red.  

A whisper slithered into his ear:  
“Leave.”  

His crew froze.  
Camera screens turned to static.  

The Library hissed:  
“He was warned. But none of them listen.”  

---

THE ESCALATION — Witchcraft Revealed
The house reacted.  
- Walls bled slow crimson rivers.  
- Ceiling bulbs burst like gunshots.  
- Shadows stretched, reaching for the intruders.  

The crew screamed—dragged by unseen claws into folds of darkness.  
One camera caught faces stretched across wallpaper, screaming silently.  

In the basement, they found it:  
- A circle of ash  
- Bones arranged in a star  
- Melted candles spiraled into unnatural shapes  
- A spellbook, humming with heat  

This wasn’t a haunting.  
It was containment.  
A coven had tried binding something here.  
A demon.  
But it devoured them instead.  

The house wasn’t haunted.  
It was a throat.  
Everything inside it was being digested.  

Ledger Entry 14,094  
- Entity: Violet‑eyed demon  
- Status: Stirring  
- Victims: Crew compromised  
- Note: Scarabs flicker crimson. Reader proximity detected.  

---

THE DEMON — Unbound
The air tore open.  
Smoke coiled upward.  
Limbs formed from black ash.  
Eyes ignited violet—old, hungry, calculating.  

A voice emerged like coal dragged over bone:  
“Finally. The audience is dead. Who will watch you now, little legend?”  

The demon’s presence collapsed the room into suffocating gravity.  
The crew died fast—souls ripped out, slammed into walls, faces stretched across wallpaper forever screaming.  

Only the ghost hunter remained—  
glasses cracked, tattoo glowing molten red, scarab necklace shifting to deep purple.  

The demon leaned close.  
“Stay.”  

The Storyteller sneezed sharply.  
“Sulfur,” he muttered. “Always sulfur.”  
The Library groaned in irritated agreement.  

The hunter dropped the Glass of Echoes.  
It shattered.  
Reality buckled.  

The demon roared—  
and lunged.  

But the scarab necklace flared black, shielding him.  
The Library whispered:  
“Not yet. He still has a part to play.”  

---

THE FINAL MOMENTS
The hunter ran.  
The house closed.  
Doors slammed like bones breaking.  
Floorboards split, swallowing him into blackness.  

The last camera recorded:  
- His cracked glasses  
- His blood  
- The demon’s violet glare  
- The scarab necklace burning like an ember  

Then darkness.  

Ledger Entry 14,095  
- Subject: Ghost hunter  
- Status: Terminated  
- Artifact: Glass shattered  
- Note: Another soul claimed. Reader cataloged.  

The Library slammed its shelves shut, sealing the trace.  

---

OUTRO — Ritual Ledger
The Storyteller set down the shard.  
The Library hummed with unease.  

Another soul consumed.  
Another warning unheard.  

- Every click steps deeper into the Ashwood house.  
- Every comment awakens one of the trapped souls.  
- Every share feeds the demon’s name into another room of the Library.  

The Glass of Echoes hums briefly—  
then stops.  

But the demon…  
it does not stop.  
Its violet eyes press against the edge of the Library’s wards.  
Waiting.  
Remembering.  
Marking.  

And as you finish reading—  
the glass has already reflected your face.  

Stick around. Subscribe. Share.

X (Twitter): @NightlyStoryTel

Instagram: @NightlyStoryteller

Bluesky: nightlystoryteller.bsky.

Email. thenightlystorytellerblog@gmail.com
  

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

🕯️ The Gold Coin Chronicles Presents: “The Draw”

-
Image
🎙️ Intro — The Whisper Between Worlds > The rain has a voice, you know. Not the soft lullaby poets talk about, but something older… lonelier. It speaks in patterns — the rhythm of regret against a windowpane, the sigh of wind slipping through an open crack. When I was younger, I used to listen to it. But that was before I learned that some knocks shouldn’t be answered. And yet, we always do. We open the door — hoping for closure, or forgiveness, or maybe just a sign that we’re not alone. Tonight’s story begins with a knock like that… and a coin that should’ve stayed in the rain. --- 🌧️ Scene One: “The Draw” Cary, Illinois. A neighborhood where every house looks like it’s waiting for something — blinds half-closed, porch lights flickering like they’re afraid of the dark. Inside one of those houses, three friends gathered as rain lashed the windows. The air smelled like damp carpet, burnt popcorn, and stale beer. Somewhere, a fridge hummed with a tired rattle. The heater...
Read more

🕰️ Five Minute Fright: “The Watcher’s Gift”

-
Image
🎩 The Nightly Storyteller > “Time is the cruelest of currencies. We spend it without thought, we beg for more, and we always lose it in the end. But every so often… time gives something back. A second chance. A warning. Or, in this case—one final act of gratitude.” --- The rain had finally stopped by the time Evan left the funeral. He stood at the edge of the cemetery, hands in his coat pockets, watching as the groundskeeper lowered the last bouquet onto the fresh soil. His elderly neighbor, Mr. Harker, had lived alone for years—quiet, kind, and always ready with a story about “the good old days.” When the two became neighbors, Evan often helped with groceries, yard work, and fixing things around the house. Harker didn’t have much, but he always said, “You’ve given me the one thing no one else has, son—your time.” Two days later, a small box arrived in the mail. The return label: H. Harker. Inside, wrapped in soft cloth, was an old pocket watch—its gold casing aged, the...
Read more

🪙 The Cursed Gold Coin: Medieval Origin Story of Betrayal, Blood, and Supernatural Justice.

-
Image
“Some coins are minted in fire. Others in blood.” 🕯️ The Nightly Storyteller’s Monologue The coin has appeared in many places — a hotel, a reporter’s satchel, a soldier’s coat pocket. But to understand its curse, we must go back… before the Silver Pines Lodge, before the porcelain mask, before the ringing bell. Back to when kings bled gold and peasants bled truth. I’ve dreamt of it lately — that coin glinting in a storm, the sky roaring as if in protest. And sometimes, when thunder wakes me, I swear I hear it rolling across my nightstand, whispering stories of where it’s been… and who it punished next. Tonight, I tell you the first. Before the Silver Pines Lodge, before the porcelain mask and the ringing bell…   There was a kingdom — proud, golden, and dying from the inside. --- 🍂 The Poisoned Throne The rightful king was dead, poisoned by his own brother. Lord Malrec wore black for seven days to feign grief — and gold for the rest of his reign. His appetite for ...
Read more