Showing results by author "Fexingo" in All Categories

The Night Librarian is a serialized horror podcast that follows Luna, a solitary archivist in a vast, candlelit library where every book is a door to another world — and every door has a lock. By night, she pushes a wooden trolley through aisles of stained-glass moonlight, cataloging tomes that whisper, bleed, and sometimes breathe. But a pattern emerges: certain books share a recurring symbol — a brass key stamped with an unfamiliar sigil — and each one describes a different town that has vanished from every map. As Luna traces the threads between these lost places, she uncovers a ...

On the Mojave highway, Luna moves through static. Each episode of this anthology is a fragment of desert delirium—a hitchhiker who knows your name, a radio station that only plays at midnight, a motel room where the walls breathe. Here, the heat waves are lies, and the Joshua trees are watchers. No two stories share a road, but all are bound by the same law: in the American desert, the dead don't stay buried. Luna's voice is a quiet companion as you drift through these parched, dreamlike tales where loneliness becomes a trap, and the horizon is a mouth. Each story is a self-contained descent...

In the shadow of the Adirondack High Peaks, where the old-growth forest meets blackwater lakes, Ranger Luna sorts through decades of incident reports that never made it to public record. Each episode of The Adirondack Files is a standalone tale of the strange and the deeply wrong that occurs when the boundary between wilderness and civilization thins to nothing. These are not ghost stories in the traditional sense; they are accounts of misread maps that lead to valleys that should not exist, of hunting blinds that vanish in the fog leaving only a blood-soaked rifle, of a canoe that drifts out ...

Sycamore Ridge is a serialized horror podcast about the town that vanished from every map—and the cassette tapes Luna found in a thrift store that refuse to stay quiet. Each episode pulls a thread from the same unraveling mystery: a quiet commuter town erased from county records, a choir of missing children who sang on a single broadcast, and a rusted water tower that hums at a frequency no one can name. Luna reads from the recovered journals of Amelia Croft, a former resident who documented the town's slow corruption by something beneath the sycamore grove. This is not a collection of safe ...

On the Texas-Mexico border, where limestone ridges slice the dusk and adobe chapels hold single flames against the dark, Luna tells stories of the Devil's Backbone — a spine of rock that legends say is a threshold. Each episode is a self-contained tale of those who cross that ridge: the smuggler who hears his own name in the coyote's call, the nun who finds a rosary that counts sins instead of prayers, the child who sees a candle flicker in a window that has been sealed for a century. These are not jump-scares; they are slow, creeping dread that settles like dust on a dirt road. The stories ...

In the fog-choked hollows of Appalachia, something ancient stirs beneath the roots of sycamore and hemlock. Luna returns to the bones of Hollow County, where her grandmother's cabin still leans against the ridge, and where the deer watch from the treeline with too-human eyes. Here, the mailman's truck has been circling the same gravel loop for three days. Here, the well behind the church doesn't hold water—it holds whispers. In each episode, Luna walks the hollow roads and rotting porches, collecting the stories the county tries to bury: a game warden who found a deer with a woman's hand in ...

In a rain-streaked room, by the light of a single oil lamp, Luna sits at her writing desk. The unfinished manuscript before her seems to write itself — each page curling with ink that tells stories she never planned to tell. The Lonely Chapter is an anthology of quiet, intimate horrors: the forgotten footnote in a library book that rewrites history, the last letter from a lighthouse keeper who vanished mid-sentence, the photograph that ages backward each time it's viewed. These are tales of solitude, of things found in the margins, of silences that speak louder than screams. Every episode ...

Luna reads from a cache of letters discovered in the lantern room of a storm-battered lighthouse. Each episode unfolds a single letter — written by a lighthouse keeper who served a century ago — and the events that ripple into the present. The keeper's voice grows more desperate with each dispatch: his logbooks record a ship that appears on the horizon every night but never arrives, a fog that whispers, and a second lighthouse that flickers where none should be. Luna's narration is hushed, as if the lighthouse walls might be listening. This is a serialized descent into maritime isolation, ...

Deep in the Appalachian hollers, where fog clings to rhododendron thickets and black creeks run cold beneath mossy bridges, Luna gathers around a kerosene lamp and tells the stories that hollow out the land itself. 'Hollow Country' is an anthology of self-contained tales rooted in the geography of the American South — abandoned mining camps, half-sunken graveyards, crossroads that only appear during eclipses, and families who've been keeping secrets since before the railroad came through. Each episode stands alone, but every story shares a quiet, inevitable dread: the sense that the ...

A hallway of identical doors, each one a promise of something left behind. In 'Rooms We Don't Open,' Luna guides you through the threshold of a single story per episode — a self-contained confession from a house that remembers, an apartment that listens, a hotel corridor that narrows as you walk. These are tales of spaces that hold secrets: the locked basement where the last tenant left something breathing, the nursery that hums in an empty house, the study whose books rearrange themselves at night. Luna's voice is the only constant, a low ember in the dark, as she unfolds each room's ...

Louisiana's bayous are not just water and trees; they are veins of memory, grief, and hunger. In Bayou After Dark, Luna guides you through a world where the cypress roots hold secrets and the mist carries whispers of those who never made it home. Each episode is a self-contained story drawn from the folklore, history, and hidden corners of the American South: a trapper who catches something in his net that should not exist, a bride whose wedding veil is made of Spanish moss, a family who hears their own voices calling from the swamp at night. These are not jump scares. They are slow, ...

From a private library wall, Luna removes a single black-bound book—its leather cracked, its twine binding tight. This is 'Bound in Black', an anthology of stories drawn from that volume alone. Each episode is a self-contained descent into a different kind of dread: a woman who finds a photograph of herself in a book she's never opened, a man whose reflection begins aging faster than he does, a town where every library book contains a single handwritten page about the reader's deepest fear. The stories share a unifying thread—the power of what is written, what is read, and what is left ...

In a forgotten municipal archive, Luna sorts through boxes of case files that were never meant to leave the building. The Archivist is a serialized horror podcast where each episode uncovers another document from the Sycamore Ridge missing-persons collection — a century of vanishings, each tied to a symbol carved into trees along the ridge. Luna speaks in the quiet hush of a reading room, her voice the only sound as she turns brittle pages. The stories are slow, methodical, dread-soaked: a librarian who walked into the stacks and never came out, a child's drawing that accurately predicted ...

Dispatch is a serialized horror podcast that unfolds in the static-crackle of late-night radio. Luna plays a night-shift broadcaster at WKRK, a low-watt station in the dying town of Sycamore Ridge, where the only callers are the dead. Each episode is a live transmission: a missing persons alert that becomes a confession, a weather report that describes a storm that hasn't arrived, a dedication that summons something from the woods. As the episodes progress, Luna's voice grows thinner, the signal more unstable, and the callers begin to describe the same thing—a figure standing at the edge of ...

Deep in the old-growth forests of the Pacific Northwest, where fog clings to the firs and the underbrush hides secrets older than memory, Luna walks the trails and tells the stories that the trees have whispered to her. Each episode of 'Whatever Walks the Pines' is a self-contained horror tale drawn from the mossy silence of these woods — tales of hikers who stray from the path, of cabins that weren't on any map, of things that move between the trunks when the light fails. The stories are slow and patient, unspooling like mist through the branches, settling into a dread that feels less like ...

In a forgotten wing of the Blackwood Museum, Luna wears white cotton gloves as she opens a brass display case. The object inside — a tarnished pocket-watch that doesn't tick, but hums — is the first of many. Each episode of 'The Curator' follows Luna as she examines a new acquisition for the museum's 'Anomalous Artifacts' collection: a mirror that reflects a room you're not standing in, a music box that plays a song from the year you died, a child's doll that ages one year every night. But the pocket-watch is the key. As Luna catalogs each object, she begins to notice connections — ...

Under the amber glow of a hurricane lantern in a dusty attic, Luna opens a worn hardcover and reads stories that are not meant to be read alone. Each episode of The Lantern Anthology is a self-contained tale drawn from a fictional collection of lost and forbidden literature — forgotten folklore, abandoned manuscripts, letters never sent. The stories wander through isolated farmhouses at dusk, towns swallowed by forest, and roads that appear only on maps no one remembers drawing. Some whisper of bargains made with creatures beneath the floorboards; others speak of inheritances that should ...

In the concrete bowels of a decommissioned Cold War listening post, a single operator still turns the dial. Luna sits at the console, scanning frequencies that haven't carried official traffic in decades. But the static isn't empty. Through the hiss, she picks up fragments: a missing family's last microwave transmission, a dead soldier's field radio still calling for extraction, a weather buoy reporting impossible temperatures. The signals come from places that no longer exist—or never did. Each episode of The Listening Post is a recorded dispatch, a captured signal from the edge of known ...

In 'The Deep Quiet,' Luna descends into the abyss of the human psyche, telling stories set in the crushing dark of the ocean's depths. Each episode is a self-contained tale of isolation, pressure, and the unknown that lurks beyond the reach of light. From the crew of a deep-sea research station who hear whispers through the hull, to a solitary diver who discovers a city on the sea floor that should not exist, these narratives are unified by the cold, suffocating atmosphere of the deep. Luna's voice, intimate and hushed, guides you through tales of madness, surrender, and the thin line between ...

Luna stands in the fluorescent glare of a self-storage hallway, bolt cutters in hand, facing Locker 47. Inside that unit lies something that should not exist—a collection of artifacts that rewrite the history of a town that was never on any map. In this serialized story, Luna opens the locker and unspools a tape left behind by a previous renter, a woman named Elara who vanished after making a terrible discovery. Each episode peels back another layer: a cryptic journal, a child's toy that moves on its own, a photograph dated 1897 of a person who looks exactly like Luna. The locker's contents ...