The Weekend Thriller Story 3 — Blood of the First Circle | Scariest Story Ever

The Weekend Thriller Story 3…… Blood of the First Circle

Silverlyn didn’t sleep the night she fled her apartment.
Not even when she made it to Zara’s place, hands shaking, chest tight, her shirt drenched with sweat. She locked every window, shoved a chair under the door handle, and curled into Zara’s sofa like a child hiding from thunder.

But the knocking still echoed in her skull.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

That voice
“I’m not Jonas.”
followed her into every breath.

At dawn, Zara sat beside her, hair disheveled, eyes bruised purple from no sleep.

“We can’t stay here,” Zara said quietly. “Someone wants to speak with you.”

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Silverlyn frowned. “Who?”

“A professor. He’s been researching the Blackwood Circle for years. He said he knew you’d reach out eventually.”

Silverlyn swallowed. “How?”

Zara hesitated.
“He said he’s been tracking survivors like us for decades.”

THE PROFESSOR

Professor Grayson lived in an old townhouse with peeling green paint and a brass knocker shaped like a wolf’s jaw. Inside, the air smelled like dust and old books. Shelves overflowed with scrolls, maps, and artifacts, rusted bowls, cracked stones, dried flowers inside jars.

He studied Silverlyn with a sharp, clinical gaze.

“You weren’t the first,” he said without greeting. “Nor will you be the last—unless you stop what’s coming.”

Silverlyn stiffened. “What do you mean, the first?”

Grayson placed a heavy leather-bound book on the table. The cover was branded with a circle of nine symbols—sharp, jagged, and hauntingly familiar.

“The Circle you encountered was only the most recent. Blood pacts have been made every ten years for centuries. Groups of friends, strangers, lovers… all pulled into the ritual.”

Silverlyn’s stomach twisted. “What happened to them?”

Grayson opened the book.
Each page showed different faces—their eyes filled with terror, their smiles tight and brittle. Beneath every picture were the same words:

VANISHED. NO REMAINS. NO TRACES.

“Every decade,” the professor repeated, tapping the page, “a new group disappears completely. Until the next one forms.”

Silverlyn felt her heartbeat drop into her stomach. “Why us?”

“Because you were chosen long before you even met.”

Silverlyn flinched.
That was the same message she’d found under her floorboard.

Grayson noticed her reaction.

“You found the note,” he said quietly. “Jonas’s handwriting?”

Her breath caught. “How did you know?”

“Because Jonas wasn’t the first to be taken—and he won’t be the last.”

THE CHILDREN OF BLACKWOOD

Grayson pulled out a faded photograph. It showed seven children standing in front of the Blackwood woods—barefoot, pale, their expressions hollow.

“These were the original founders of the Blackwood Circle,” he said. “Children raised for sacrifice. They were taught the rituals, the chants, the symbols… and one of them escaped.”

Silverlyn stared at the photograph. “Escaped?”

“Yes. And assumed a new identity. Grew up. Made friends.” He leaned forward. “That person is still alive.”

Zara gasped. “You mean one of us?”

Grayson nodded.

Silverlyn’s voice trembled. “How sure are you?”

He pushed a folder across the table. Inside were birth certificates, missing-person reports, handwritten notes in jagged childish scrawl.

“One of your friends is a child of the First Circle. A legacy vessel.”

Silverlyn’s vision blurred.
Zara?
Jonas?
Or one of the others from Blackwood?

And if one escaped… what were the others trained for?

THE SYMBOLS RETURN

Grayson continued flipping through documents until one page caught Silverlyn’s eye, a sketch of a symbol she’d seen before.

On her own skin.

Wincing, she pulled back her sleeve.

Three faint symbols glowed on her palm, like someone had burned ink beneath her skin.

Zara inhaled sharply. “Silverlyn… those weren’t there yesterday.”

Silverlyn jerked her hand away. “They appear whenever I hear Jonas’s voice.”

Grayson nodded grimly. “Then you’re marked deeper than the others. The collectors aren’t just following you, they’re calling you.”

“Why me?” Silverlyn whispered.

“Because something in you responds,” Grayson said. “Something they bound before you were even born.”

Silverlyn’s blood ran cold.
Was she chosen?
Or cursed?

THE FLICKERING

The lights overhead buzzed.

Then flickered.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Silverlyn froze as the room went dim—only for a shape to flicker into view in the corner.

A figure.

Tall.
Shadow-thin.
Flickering like a glitch in the air.

“Stay back,” Zara whispered.

But Silverlyn stepped forward—because in the half-second the figure solidified, she saw him.

Jonas.

His face blurred but unmistakable, eyes wide, mouth parted in panic.

“Jonas!” Silverlyn whispered.

He lifted a trembling hand. His voice echoed like it was traveling across worlds:

“Silverlyn… listen—”

Then he distorted—pulled sideways like gravity shifted around him—then snapped back into place for a heartbeat.

“The bowl wasn’t…”
Static swallowed his voice.
“…the source…”

“What?” Silverlyn begged, stepping closer.

Jonas flickered violently, pieces of him glitching in and out.

“It was a lock,” he finally managed. “You broke it—”

And then he vanished.

Not faded.
Not dissolved.

Yanked away.

As if something grabbed him from behind.

Silverlyn stumbled back, hand over her mouth.

Zara looked sick.
Grayson looked terrified for the first time.

“You shouldn’t be able to see him,” he whispered. “Not unless the veil is thinning.”

“What does that mean?” Silverlyn managed.

“That the collectors are coming through,” he said. “And that Jonas is still connected to you… in ways we don’t understand.”

Silverlyn felt the symbols on her palm burn.

THE FILES

While Grayson stepped away to answer a call, Silverlyn sifted through more records on the table.

One document in particular froze her blood.

A newspaper article titled:

BLACKWOOD CHILD ESCAPES RITUAL — AUTHORITIES SEARCH FOR “MARKED CHILD”

Underneath was a sketch of a little girl with intense eyes.

Silverlyn’s hands trembled.

The face…
something about it felt familiar.

Too familiar.

She swallowed hard.
“Zara,” she whispered. “Look.”

Zara leaned over, then jerked back.
“That’s—”

Before she finished, the lights died completely.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Then—

A scream.

Grayson’s scream.

Silverlyn and Zara froze. Something thudded to the floor in the next room.

“Professor?” Zara whispered.

No answer.

Silverlyn reached for her phone flashlight. The beam cut weakly into the dark.

“Professor Grayson?” she called.

Still nothing.

They followed the noise into the hallway—hearts pounding—only to find empty floor tiles, Grayson’s glasses smashed beside a toppled chair…

…and one object lying in the center of the room.

A wooden shard.

Carved with the same symbols as the bowl they shattered in the Blackwood basement.

Silverlyn stared at it, horrified.

Zara whispered, “Is… is that a piece of another bowl?”

Silverlyn picked it up with trembling fingers. It pulsed—warm, alive.

Something was written on the back.

Three words burned into the wood:

FOUND THE VESSEL

Silverlyn’s breath caught.

“Zara…” she said slowly. “This means someone here—one of us—was chosen to inherit their power.”

Zara shook her head violently. “No. No, that can’t be—”

But Silverlyn wasn’t listening anymore.

Because the symbols on her palm lit up like embers.

“Silverlyn?” Zara whispered, stepping back. “Your hand—”

Silverlyn could feel it now.
Something crawling beneath her skin.
Something waking.

The wooden shard vibrated in her hand.

Then a whisper drifted through the air—cold as dead breath.

“You were born for this.”

Zara jerked away.

“Silverlyn… someone is lying to us,” she said, voice shaking. “Either the professor… or Jonas… or—”

Silverlyn finished it for her.

“—or one of us.”

A heavy silence fell.

The wooden shard pulsed again—almost like a heartbeat.

And from the darkened corner of the room came a soft, unmistakable sound.

Flicker.

Then another.

A shadow peeled itself from the wall.

For a moment it had Jonas’s shape.

Then it shifted—elongated—smiling with too many teeth.

Silverlyn stepped back, horrified.

Zara screamed.

And the shadow whispered—voice layered with echoes:

“The lock is broken.
Now we return.”

The lights exploded back on.

The shadow vanished.

Grayson was nowhere.

Only the wooden shard remained—warm in Silverlyn’s trembling hand.

And carved deeper beneath the first message was a new line she hadn’t seen before:

THE CHILD WHO ESCAPED IS CLOSE.

Silverlyn turned slowly toward Zara.

Zara’s face was pale.
Her pupils wide.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Zara whispered.

But something in Silverlyn’s gut twisted.

Her best friend since college.

Always protective.
Always scared.
Always… knowing more than she admitted.

“You think it’s me,” Zara said softly.

Silverlyn didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t know.

Because she was starting to doubt everything—even herself.

The wooden shard pulsed again.

Silverlyn’s palm burned.

And somewhere outside the townhouse, something howled—a long, hollow, inhuman cry that made the windows tremble.

The collectors were here.

And they were no longer bound.

Silverlyn clutched the shard to her chest and stumbled backward.

“Zara… run.”

But before either of them could move—

The hallway lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Then died.

And the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, approaching—filled the darkness.