The Marked Chronicles Presents: The Night the Fields Screamed

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📚 The Library of the Marked

Some stories sit quietly on the shelf.  
Others bleed through the bindings.  

This one… refuses to stay still.  

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🩸 Intro — The Night the Fields Screamed

They say the desert quiet is peaceful.  
But silence is not peace—it is pressure.  

And when it breaks, it doesn’t whisper.  
It remembers.  

Tonight’s tale comes from a lonely farm outside a town that forgot it existed. A place where dust erases footprints before you can look back, and the wind repeats names you don’t recall ever giving away.  

Here, Elena Mora discovered that some creatures don’t just haunt the dark.  
They are the dark.  

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🌑 The Chupacabra That Walked

Seven years Elena lived on that barren stretch of land. Seven years of cracked soil, stubborn crops, and nights so silent she sometimes wondered if she’d gone deaf.  

But silence can rot.  

First, the chickens vanished.  
Then the goats refused to leave their pens.  
Then came the tracks—too deep, too heavy, as if the earth itself sagged beneath them.  

And then came the smell.  

Copper. Sour. A stench that clung to her clothesline, seeped through her locked windows, and made her dreams taste of rust.  

She reinforced barns, bolted doors, lit every lamp.  

But the smell stayed.  
And sometimes, when she woke, the taste of blood in her mouth wasn’t from a dream; she swore the scent was coming from her own skin.  

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The First Night It Stood

It was a little after midnight when Elena heard the thud.  

Not the creaks of an old house.  
Not the sigh of settling wood.  

This landed.  
This arrived.  

Her flashlight beam seemed weaker than usual, swallowed by the dark as if the night had grown teeth.  

And then it stepped into view.  

Tall. Thick-skinned. Hunched forward but capable of standing upright.  
Its eyes reflected the light like twin embers—yet they didn’t just glow. They mirrored.  

The chupacabra.  
And this one walked on two legs.  

When it hissed, the windows rattled. Elena slammed the door shut, shoved a chair against it, and pressed her back to the wall.  

She waited for the sound of it leaving.  

But she never heard it go.  
And when dawn came, the claw marks on the door looked suspiciously like her own handwriting.  
She traced them with her finger, and for a moment, she thought she was signing her own name.  

---

Night Two — The Chase

Sleep abandoned her. By the next night, her nerves were frayed, her breath too loud, her heartbeat echoing like footsteps in her ears.  

At 2:17 AM, the front door didn’t just break—it exhaled, as if the house itself had grown tired of keeping her safe.  

The chupacabra stormed inside, claws carving grooves into her floorboards.  

It lunged.  
Its hand raked her shoulder—hot, burning, deliberate.  

The pain was instant.  
The blood was warm.  
And the scar would never fade.  

But when she looked down, she wasn’t sure if the wound was real.  
Her skin was unbroken.  
Her shirt was soaked.  

Elena ran.  
The creature followed.  
Or maybe it was her shadow.  
But shadows don’t breathe.  
And this one did.  

---

The Barn of Shadows

Her boots pounded the dirt, each step swallowed by the night. The creature’s breath steamed against her neck, hotter than fire.  

She reached the barn, yanked the door open, and threw herself inside.  

Something stirred in the rafters.  

A bat—large, black, territorial. Its shriek was almost human, a sound of warning… or laughter.  

Dust swirled in shapes she thought she recognized: faces, mouths, prayers.  
One of them looked like hers, mouthing words she couldn’t remember saying.  

The chupacabra slammed into the barn.  

Chaos.  
Wings.  
Claws.  
Blood.  

Elena swung a shovel, striking the rafters, sending feathers and dust raining down. The creature lunged, its jaw cracking under her blow.  

It recoiled, then smiled—a broken, wide grin, as if it had been waiting for this fight, this blood, this moment of surrender or savagery.  

Elena struck again.  
And again.  
And again.  

The creature staggered, twitching, then howled—a guttural sound that shook the barn’s bones.  

It fled into the night.  

The bat returned to its shadow.  
The barn fell silent.  

Elena dropped the shovel, trembling, bleeding, her breath ragged like she’d been drowning.  

Outside, far off…  
The creature screamed.  

But when she checked the barn floor, there were no claw marks.  
Only her footprints.  

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🩸 Outro — The Story Continues

The Library grows.  
Its shelves remember.  
And its monsters never truly leave.  

Elena survived the night—but survival is only the first chapter.  

The Mark isn’t a scar.  
It’s a door.  
And doors don’t stay closed forever.  

The chupacabra still walks on two legs.  
Or maybe it doesn’t.  
Maybe it never did.  

Stick around. Subscribe. Share.

X (Twitter): @NightlyStoryTel

Instagram: @NightlyStoryteller

Bluesky: nightlystoryteller.bsky.

Email. thenightlystorytellerblog@gmail.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.

thenightlystoryteller.blogspot.com

The night only gets deeper from here.  


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