🕯️ The Nightly Storyteller Presents🩸 “Echoes of What I’ve Become”(The Storyteller Chronicles — Episode I)

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🎙️ Monologue — “The Things I’ve Drunk, Fought, and Become”
> “I’ve lost track of what I’ve done to survive.
> First, a scarab that whispered like a second conscience—cold, patient, and always hungry.
> Then a chalice of something purple and ancient that burned my throat and memory.
> A vampire’s bite followed, then the fists and fangs of things that weren’t supposed to exist.
> I’ve hunted monsters, fought beside them, and somewhere along the way… became one.
> Maybe it’s not the blood that changes you.
> Maybe it’s what you’re willing to bury alive beneath your skin.”
> 
> Drink. Fight. Become.
> 
🎞️ Film Reflection — The Last House on the Left (1972)
Wes Craven’s debut film doesn’t just disregard your comfort—it assaults it. It crawls under your skin, tears apart your civility, and leaves you in the dirt.
The Last House on the Left isn’t about ghosts or curses—it’s about what humans do when all civility is stripped away.
It’s raw, ugly, and unflinching.
The violence isn’t stylized; it’s sickeningly real. That’s the point. Craven wanted to show what happens when revenge becomes as monstrous as the crime that inspired it.
Even now, it still feels dangerous to watch—like staring into a mirror you weren’t ready for.
Because horror isn’t always about what’s hiding in the dark. Sometimes, it’s what the light reveals.
> “Monsters,” I once heard in Elyndor, “are simply truths that refuse to stay buried.”
> 
⚔️ The Storyteller Chronicles: Episode I — “The Blood of Elyndor”
When Virex found us, the earth was already closing in.
The cave had collapsed. The air was thick with dust and panic. Our torches were dying one by one.
I remember Nyra’s hand trembling beside mine, Val’s muffled voice calling out for help, and Rhett’s breath slowing as the oxygen thinned.
Then—light.
Virex’s voice cut through the dark like a blade. He tore through the rubble with impossible strength, pulling each of us out one by one.
When the last stone fell away, the night sky greeted us like an accusation.
We were free—but not safe.
I turned to Virex, his face streaked with ash.
> “You shouldn’t have come back for us.”
> 
He smirked.
> “You’d do the same.”
> 
Maybe he was right. Maybe that’s what scared me.
I told him to take Rhett home—he’d inhaled too much dust, and his breathing was shallow.
Val limped forward, clutching her side.
> “They took the relics,” she rasped. “The Covenant. I saw them vanish into the mist.”
> 
The scarab in my hand began to hum again, its light pulsing like a heartbeat. I felt the words rise in my throat before I spoke them:
> “Elyndor.”
> 
The portal ripped open, its glow spilling over the ruins like sunrise through broken glass. Nyra stepped beside me, eyes wide as we crossed into the other side.
Elyndor was waiting.
Every clan, every banner, every oath that had ever been sworn under moonlight stood ready. The sky shimmered with symbols older than memory.
When the Goatman and the Veneris Covenant appeared, their arrogance didn’t just curdle—it shattered.
> “How did they know we were coming?” one of the Covenant hissed, her eyes darting between our allied ranks.
> 
Nyra and I answered together, our voices cold steel:
> “Because we wrote the invitation.”
> 
The Goatman roared, charging forward in blind rage.
But before he reached me, he froze—eyes wide.
A black arm burst through his chest, veins of obsidian pulsing across its surface. It held his heart like an offering.
A single squeeze.
The sound of breaking bones.
Then nothing.
The Goatman collapsed, his body twitching once before going still.
Above us, The Shadow rose—born from the scarab’s power, its wings unfurling like stormclouds. Its eyes burned with the same green fire that pulsed in my palm, and its body was sheathed in obsidian.
Val staggered back.
> “Is that… yours?”
> 
Nyra didn’t answer. She just kept staring at the descending creature, her voice barely a whisper.
> “It’s what you buried.”
> 
The Shadow dove toward the Covenant, a blur of wings and hunger. It snatched Val’s stolen relics from their grasp before retreating into the mist.
The Veneris leader stared at the corpse of the Goatman, her expression unreadable.
> “We underestimated you,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”
> 
With that, they vanished, leaving only the scent of burnt air and blood.
I opened two portals—one for Val, one for myself.
Nyra watched silently, her hand resting on her blade.
> “This isn’t over,” she whispered.
> 
> “It never is,” I replied.
> 
The scarab pulsed one last time.
And I stepped into the light—toward a world I’d already begun to haunt.
> Drink. Fight. Become.
> 
🩶 Closing Lines

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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.

Tell me what you’ve buried beneath your skin. I’ll tell you what it’s become.
We’re just getting started—and things are about to get dark.

thenightlystoryteller.blogspot.com

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