Every night, Luna sits at the unlit ON AIR desk of a tiny radio station, a sealed letter in hand. The letters arrive from a town that exists only on the other side of the page — Sycamore Ridge, a place that appears in no census, on no map, but whose residents write to the Night Desk as though it were their only tether to the world beyond. Luna reads their stories aloud into a dead microphone, for no one but herself — or so she believes. Letters to the Night Desk is an anthology of epistolary horror: each episode a self-contained missive from someone in Sycamore Ridge, recounting the unnatural events that define their days. A woman whose garden grows teeth. A man who receives phone calls from his own reflection. A child whose shadow keeps moving after the light goes out. The stories are bound by the station itself — a liminal space where the letters arrive without postmarks, and where Luna's voice becomes the last known transmission from a frequency that shouldn't exist. Each letter is a confession, a warning, or a plea. Some are stained with what might be rust. The unifying thread is not a plot but a place — a town that shifts between the lines. Settle in. The ON AIR sign never lights. But Luna is listening.

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