Showing results by author "Fexingo" in All Categories

A single open file folder on damp carpet. Coffee gone cold. Ceiling tiles buzzing like trapped flies. In Between is an anthology of stories that take place in the spaces we try not to notice — the corridor between closing time and the last train, the pause between a knock and an answer, the hum of fluorescent light when you're the only one left in the building. Each episode is a self-contained tale of quiet dread: a night-shift security guard whose rounds reveal a floor that shouldn't exist, a temp worker who finds a locked drawer with her own name on it, a woman waiting for a bus that ...

In a dim listening room, the turntable hums. Luna sets the needle on a worn LP, its label inscribed with a single phrase: 'Side B.' These are the stories that never made it onto the commercial release — the outtakes, the B-sides, the recordings that were supposed to be erased. Each episode of Side B is a standalone tale from the margins: a forgotten demo tape that reveals a musician's hidden crime, a locked-groove loop that traps a listener in a single moment of terror, a dubplate pressed from a séance's audio. The register is intimate, hushed, as if Luna is sharing a rare find from her ...

The treeline marks the edge of the known world. In this anthology podcast, Luna takes you into the forest's threshold — where trails end, where the undergrowth thickens, where something waits just beyond the last pine. Each episode is a self-contained story about hikers, rangers, and wanderers who cross into the deep woods and find the old things that live there: root-woven traps, villages that don't appear on maps, a cabin with no door. From the Pacific Northwest to the Appalachian spine, these are tales of wrong turns and quiet horrors. Luna's voice draws you into the dusk-light, the snap ...

In the hushed embalming-prep room of a small-town funeral home, Luna opens the leather-bound register and reads the names of the dead who came before. 'The Last Service' is an anthology series of self-contained stories, each beginning with a name entered into that old book—a life, a death, and the secret that lingers between them. Here, the deceased do not always rest. A widow insists her husband's corpse smiled at her. A mortician finds a note scrawled inside a sealed casket. A child's funeral draws mourners who never knew her, all wearing the same puzzled expression. Luna's voice, low and ...

Inbox Zero is an anthology horror podcast where each episode is a sealed email you should have deleted. Luna reads from a single folder — messages from the dead, the damned, and the desperate. Some are chain letters that count your breaths. Others are automated replies from systems that shouldn't exist. One is a meeting invitation with no end time. The ritual is always the same: a familiar subject line, a sender you recognize, a body that shouldn't be there. The stories are self-contained, but they share a world where digital communication is a haunted threshold — every notification a ...

In the fluorescent hum of a 911 dispatch center, every call is a door to someone's worst moment. This anthology series follows Luna, a veteran operator, as she recounts the calls that never left her — the ones that defied procedure, logic, and sometimes reality. From a child reporting a monster that only appears when the line is open, to a stranded motorist whose GPS coordinates lead to a town that doesn't exist, each episode is a standalone story pulled from the archives of the emergency response network. The unifying thread: every tale begins with a ringing line and ends with a dial tone ...

Step into the amber glow of a forgotten speakeasy, where the clink of glasses masks whispers of the dead. In this anthology of self-contained stories, Luna draws you close beneath the dim gaslight of a Prohibition-era basement, each tale a fragment of a larger, unseen history: a pianist who plays only the requiem no one requested, a coupe glass that fills itself when the bar is empty, a chanteuse whose voice still clings to the walls long after her last song. These are the secrets that haunt the margins of the Roaring Twenties — not the bootleggers and flappers, but the something else that ...

In a dim nursery, a baby monitor crackles with static — and in the green-black haze, shapes move. Goodnight, Sweetheart is an anthology of stories about the things that watch from the dark. Luna whispers each tale from the rocking chair's edge, her voice the only warmth in a room where the curtains stir without wind. Here, a lullaby turns wrong, a forgotten crib holds secrets, and every nightlight casts shadows that breathe. No two stories are the same — a grieving father hears his daughter's voice in the static, a night nurse learns the pattern of the unseen, a child's toy remembers more ...

Under the sickly amber glow of a dying streetlight, something is always waiting to be uncovered. In Streetlight Burials, each episode is a self-contained story drawn from the cracks of a city that never sleeps — or forgets. Luna unearths tales of objects found beneath flickering lamps: a child's shoe with a name stitched inside, a bundle of letters sealed with wax, a rusted key that fits a lock no one remembers. These are not ghost stories in the traditional sense; they are quieter, rooted in the mundane turned sinister. A parking lot where shadows pool too thickly. A stretch of sidewalk ...

The Greyhound is an anthology horror podcast where Luna drives a long-distance bus through the night, and every passenger carries a story that curdles the air. Each episode is a self-contained tale set on the move — a hitchhiker's confession, a child's whispered warning, a glimpse of something in the rearview mirror that shouldn't be there. The bus is a vessel for the lost, the guilty, and the otherworldly, rolling down highways that loop back on themselves. Luna's calm narration guides you through these slow-burn dreadscapes, where the only constant is the hum of the engine and the weight ...

Game Trail is an anthology horror podcast set in the deep woods of the American Northeast, where the quiet of snowfall masks something far less natural. Each episode follows a different person—hunter, hiker, logger, lost child—who steps off the marked path and into a territory where the rules of the world shift. These are stories of cold dread, of tracks that double back on themselves, of things that watch from the treeline and never blink. Luna guides you through these isolated encounters with a steady, low voice, like a campfire tale told by someone who has seen the woods at night and ...

Deep in the national parks, where the trail maps end and the wilderness grows thick, Luna sits at a ranger station porch and reads from a logbook that was never meant for public eyes. In Park Service Stories, each episode stands alone as a self-contained account of something that happened out here—a camper who walked into a ravine and walked out again forty years younger, a fire lookout tower that receives signals from no known frequency, a pack of coyotes that follow the same ritual every full moon. These are not ghost stories told around a campfire; they are official reports, witness ...

Luna sits behind the glass counter of a forgotten pawnshop, where every object holds a story — and every story holds a debt. In this anthology, she unpacks the histories of items left behind: a tarnished pocket-watch that counts down to something unspeakable, a vintage gun that has fired only once, a child's music box that plays a lullaby for the dead. Each episode is a self-contained tale of the people who traded their possessions — and sometimes their souls — for a few dollars. From a wedding ring that carries a curse to a photograph that changes with each viewer, the pawnshop's ...

Every hospital has its graveyard shift, but St. Jude Memorial’s overnight log records things the day staff would never believe. Luna, an orderly who works the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. stretch, transcribes the strange, the tragic, and the unexplainable from a desk bathed in flickering fluorescence. In this anthology, each episode is a self-contained story culled from that log—a patient who never arrived but whose chart is full, a code blue called on an empty room, a janitor who mops the same spot of blood for thirty years. The tales are quiet and slow-burn, rooted in the mundane terror of a job ...

From the mud and morphine of a field hospital, Luna reads letters that never reached their destination — each one a story of the war within the war. In Wartime Whispers, every episode is a self-contained tale drawn from the correspondence of soldiers, nurses, and civilians caught in the machinery of conflict. These are not stories of combat, but of the quiet horrors that thrive in the margins: a nurse who tends to a wound that won't stop whispering, a soldier who receives letters from a dead wife, a radio operator who picks up a signal from a unit that was never deployed. Luna's voice, low ...

A hotel hallway that never ends, a row of doors leading to rooms that shouldn't exist. Luna checks in at a roadside inn in the Oregon Cascades and finds a corridor that stretches a mile longer than the building permits. Each episode of The Long Hallway is a standalone story tied to a different door — Room 207 with its mildew that writes warnings on the wallpaper, Room 314 where the dead bride still waits for her honeymoon, Room 412 that opens onto a field of frozen sunflowers under a moon that doesn't move. The hallway itself is the constant: a liminal space where time loops, where the ...

Luna pours coffee at a 24-hour diner where the night shift never ends and the customers never quite leave. In 'Last Call at the Diner,' each episode is a standalone story served over the counter: a trucker who hasn't blinked in three states, a waitress who forgets her own reflection, a jukebox that plays songs from tomorrow. These are the quiet horrors that settle in the cracks of a vinyl booth, the kind that arrive with the 3 AM crowd and linger like cigarette smoke. Luna's voice is the only constant—low, unhurried, watching from behind the register as the ordinary turns hollow. There's no ...

Somewhere in the deep gray of the North Atlantic, where fog erases the line between sea and sky, there is a story for every fathom. Luna takes the wheel of a weathered fishing boat — the 'Mare Tenebrarum' — and navigates the whispered tales of those who vanish beneath the waves. In Ten Fathoms, each episode is a self-contained descent into maritime terror: a lighthouse keeper whose reflection grows more real than himself, a sonar operator who hears something singing back, a ghost ship crewed by the drowned and the longing. These are not jump-scare tales — they are slow, salt-crusted ...

Every Sunday, Luna sifts through the remains of strangers' lives at estate sales. In dusty living rooms and cluttered garages, she finds objects that refuse to stay silent — a child's music box that still plays a lullaby for someone long gone, a wedding photograph where the bride's face keeps changing, a set of encyclopedias with entries that rewrite history. In The Estate Sale, each episode is a self-contained story about the things we leave behind and the things that refuse to leave us. From porcelain dolls with teeth to vintage radios that pick up broadcasts from the dead, Luna unearths ...

In a candlelit colonial room, Luna opens a leather-bound Bible stained with soot. Outside the window, a bonfire pierces the night — a pyre for the guilty, or the innocent. Burned at the Stake is an anthology of quiet, slow-burn horror set in early America and parallel worlds of paranoia and faith. Each self-contained episode follows a different soul caught between superstition and truth: a midwife accused of witchcraft, a farmer whose livestock speaks in tongues, a pastor who hears the forest praying back. Luna's voice, hushed and grave, draws you into these confessions — whispered across ...