Episodes
The Ring at the Ashland County Fair
September 1998, Ashland County Fairgrounds, Ohio. I bought a silver ring with a cloudy garnet for a dollar at a ring toss booth. It was warm against my palm, and the woman running the game watched me a little too long. That night I dreamed of a woman in a white dress standing at the edge of the midway, calling my name. When I woke, the ring had left a bruise-shaped mark on my finger. It wouldn't come off. I found an old newspaper article: Eliza Hart, twenty-two, disappeared from the same…
The Clock at the Morningside Library
In November 2003, Luna took a temporary job at the Morningside Library in a small Iowa town. An antique grandfather clock in the corner had a reputation for chiming thirteen times at midnight, and for whispering a child's name just before. The plaque on its back read 'For Emily, whose time ran out.' Emily had vanished from the library fourteen years earlier. Luna stayed after hours to hear the clock for herself—and what she heard stayed with her long after she left. #FexingoHorror…
The White Shirts at the Preston Mill Laundromat
It's October 2002 and Luna's car dies on Route 9 outside a 24-hour laundromat in Preston. Inside, she finds Vera, a woman folding an endless stack of identical white shirts that keep coming from a back room. Vera hasn't stopped folding since the mill fire two years before—and the man in the back room won't let her. A quiet, haunting encounter with the weight of unfinished work and the ghosts we never stop serving. #BoundInBlack #HorrorPodcast #Laundromat #Preston #WhiteShirts #GhostStory…
The Ribbon at the Ashland Bus Station
November 1998, Ashland, Ohio. I was waiting for the last bus when I saw her for the first time—a woman in a gray coat, tying a red ribbon to an empty bench. She did it every night for a week, never speaking, never looking at me. The station manager said no one named Margaret lived here, and the bench had not been used in years. But the ribbon stayed. And when I finally touched it, I understood why she never came back. A slow-burn story about the things we leave behind, and the places that…
The Mirror at the Desert View Motel
In August 1999, a man named Elias checked into room 7 of the Desert View Motel on the outskirts of Caliente, Nevada. The room was clean, the air conditioner rattled, and the mirror above the dresser was spotless. But something was wrong with the reflection. It was always a half-second behind. At first he thought it was his tired eyes. Then the reflection started moving on its own. Elias kept a notebook, and what he wrote in it survived. I found it in a pawn shop, tied with twine, just like this…
The Staircase at the Holloway House March 1999
In March of 1999, a woman named Miriam rented the Holloway House on Maple Street in the small town of Crestwood. The house was old, with thick baseboards and a staircase that seemed to breathe. But the staircase had an extra step—one that appeared only when you weren't looking, one that led to a landing that shouldn't exist. Over the course of a month, Miriam measured and re-measured, heard footsteps in the empty hall, and watched the shadows pool in a twelve-inch gap. This is the story of a…
The Breadbox at the Jericho Rest Stop
In November of 1998, I was driving a stretch of highway that doesn't exist anymore. Somewhere between Jericho and nowhere, I pulled into a rest stop that had no business being there. Inside, a woman sat alone at a plastic table, and beside her was a breadbox. Not a lunchbox, not a cooler — a breadbox, the kind you'd find on a grandmother's counter in 1962. She didn't speak. She didn't move. But the breadbox was breathing, and I made the mistake of asking what was inside. What followed was a…
The Man in the Green Coat at the Pines Motel, October 2001
October 2001. The Pines Motel outside of Coal Creek, Pennsylvania. I was working the night desk when a man in a green coat checked in. He paid cash. He did not want a receipt. He did not want a key. He asked for room twelve, which was boarded up. I explained it wasn't available. He said it was. By the time I looked up from the register, he was gone. That night I learned that some rooms rent themselves, and some guests never leave. This is not a ghost story. It's a story about a door that should…
The Ashes at the Thurston Chimney, March 1998
Luna recounts a visit to an old stone chimney standing alone in a clearing off Route 9 near Thurston, Ohio. It was early March 1998, a wet gray afternoon when she stopped to photograph the site for a local history project. The chimney was all that remained of a house that burned down in 1973, but someone had been tending the fireplace inside it — fresh ash, warm embers, a child's mitten on the hearth. She stayed too long. She watched the shadows move in ways that had nothing to do with the sun.…
The Shoe at the Edge of the Goodwin Hollow Road, April 1998
April 1998. A single sneaker on the shoulder of Goodwin Hollow Road, two hours outside of town. Luna was driving home when the headlights caught it—white fabric, blue trim, laces still tied. She pulled over because something about it felt wrong. Not the shoe itself, but the way it was sitting. Pointed toward the treeline. Perfectly dry on a morning when the ditches were still wet with dew. She picked it up. It was warm. Inside the shoe was a note, printed on lined paper in careful block…
The Stitches at the Ridgewood Funeral Home, January 1998
Luna tells the story of a winter night in 1998 when she helped her aunt, a funeral home director in Ridgewood, with an unusual preparation. A woman had died in her sleep, peaceful and young, but when Luna saw her, the body seemed wrong—the mouth slightly open, the fingers curled, as if mid-sentence. Then she noticed the stitches on the inside of the lip, neat and black. Her aunt said it was standard procedure. But that night, Luna heard a faint whisper from the cold room, a voice saying the…
The Bell at the Oakwood Church, December 1997
Luna recalls a December night in the small town of Oakwood, where she stopped at the old white church on a frozen road. The bell in the tower rang at an hour it shouldn't have — three slow, deliberate chimes at 2:47 AM. She found a woman in a blue coat sitting in the front pew, who spoke of a promise made and a bell that never lies. But the story the woman told was not her own — it was her mother's, and her grandmother's, and every woman in her family who had stood at that altar before. By…
The Last Tape at the Vermillion Motel, December 1997
December 1997. The Vermillion Motel on Route 9, just east of the county line. A woman checks in alone, pays cash, and does not check out. Luna finds her story in a shoebox of cassette tapes left behind in Room 12 — recordings of someone trying to prove she wasn't losing her mind. But the more Luna listens, the more she realises the tapes were never meant to be found. And the last one… the last one is still recording. #VermillionMotel #Route9 #CassetteTapes #Room12 #December1997 #CountylLine…
The Red Thread at the Dunmore Post Office, December 1997
December 1997, Dunmore, Ohio. A woman named Clara begins finding red threads tied to her mailbox, her car antenna, her front door. Each thread is exactly twelve inches long, tied in a bow. When she brings one inside, she starts hearing something shuffling through her house at night — a sound like dry cloth dragging across the floor. She calls the post office, the police, the town historian. No one has an explanation. Then she finds a thread tied around the inside of her bedroom doorknob while…
The License Plate at the Starlite Diner
In October 1999, I worked the late shift at the Starlite Diner outside Elkhorn, Wisconsin. That's where I met Frank. He came in every night at 2:00 AM, ordered black coffee and apple pie, and left a one-dollar tip. He never said more than four words. Then one night he said something else. And then he disappeared. The license plate on his truck had been registered to a man who died in 1987. But the truck was still parked behind the diner. The engine was still warm. #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast…
The Photograph at the Fairpoint Diner
In December 1999, Luna stopped at the Fairpoint Diner off Route 9, a place she'd passed a hundred times but never entered. The air smelled of burnt coffee and something floral she couldn't place. An old woman in a blue apron sat alone in a booth, staring at a polaroid she wouldn't let Luna see fully — only the corner, where a hand reached up from dark water. The woman spoke about her daughter, lost in the lake twenty years ago, and the photograph that arrived in the mail each year since, always…
The Cradle at the Pendleton Nursery
In the summer of 1997, Luna's aunt, a floral designer, took a job arranging flowers for a private estate outside a small town called Dutton. The estate had a greenhouse, a nursery that had been closed for years, and a cradle that rocked on its own. Luna's aunt didn't believe in ghosts—she believed in drafts, in old wood settling, in the mind playing tricks. But the cradle had a history, and the family who lived there had a story they wouldn't tell. This is what she found in the nursery, and…
The Graveyard Shift at the Sudbury Truck Stop
December 1997. Luna takes a temp job at the Sudbury Truck Stop on Route 9, covering the graveyard shift for a driver who vanished mid-run. The first night, a trucker in a stained coat hands her a letter for a man named Elias — a man who died in a wreck ten years ago. She keeps the letter. Reads it. Then the phone starts ringing at exactly 3:13 AM, and the caller ID shows a number that hasn't been active since 1987. By the third night, she's taking calls from a woman who asks for her dead…
The Light at the Sudbury Truck Stop, December 1997
December 1997, a frozen night at the Sudbury Truck Stop off Route 9. Luna's cousin Danny worked the late shift there, and one night a woman walked in out of the snow — no coat, no car, just a story about a light she'd been following across the field. Danny gave her coffee, then watched her walk back into the dark. This is what he told Luna the next morning, his hands still shaking around his own mug. It's about the things we choose to follow, and the ones we don't. It's about the kindness of…
The Phone at the Lowry Gas Station, November 1997
November 1997. A payphone outside a gas station in Lowry, Oklahoma rings at 3:17 AM — every morning, for six nights. Luna answers on the fourth night. She hears static, then a voice she recognizes. Her cousin, who died in a car crash three years ago — the same stretch of road the phone faces. The voice isn't asking for help. It's apologizing. Over and over. Luna starts recording the calls. By the sixth night, the voice changes. It's not her cousin anymore. It's the thing that took his shape.…
The Fan at the Wayfarer Motel July 1997
July 1997. The Wayfarer Motel, just off Route 9 in a town called Morningside that nobody's heard of. Luna checks in late, the air conditioner wheezing, the ceiling fan wobbling above the bed. She lies down and notices the fan's blades are etched with tiny letters—names, dates, pleas. The night clerk says the fan was here when the motel opened in 1959. That no one has ever changed it. That sometimes, when the room gets hot enough, the blades whisper. Luna tries to sleep as the fan ticks…
The Wind at the Traverwell Motel, June 1997
June 1997. The Traverwell Motel, five miles outside Harper's Creek, Iowa. A woman named Elaine checks in to room nine on a Tuesday night and does not check out. The clerk remembers the wind that night—how it pressed against the windows like something trying to get in. He remembers her hands shaking as she signed the register. He remembers the sound from room nine around two in the morning, a sound that was not a scream but a low, steady hum. He did not go to check. By dawn, the room was empty.…
The Well at the Hartley Farm, October 1997
October 1997. Luna's car dies on a back road near Hartley Farm, outside a small town called Pender's Mill. An old woman named Ruth offers her a place to stay the night. The farmhouse has a well in the backyard that Ruth never talks about. That night, Luna hears a sound from the well — not water, not wind. In the morning, she looks down into the dark and sees something that changes how she understands hunger. A quiet, slow-burn story about what gets fed when no one is watching. #FexingoHorror…
The Screen Door at the Tiller House, September 1995
September 1995. A woman named Cora Tiller lives alone in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Millbrook, Wisconsin. Her husband died three years ago, and she has spent that time methodically removing every trace of him—painting over walls, burning clothes, even scraping his name from the marriage certificate. But one thing remains: a screen door that slams in the wind, always at 2:47 AM. She nails it shut, bolts it, boards it over. It still opens. Luna recounts the night Cora finally sat on the back…
The Screen Door at the Tiller House, September 1995
In September of 1995, I spent a week at a rented farmhouse outside a town called Tiller. The property had a deep front porch and a screen door that would not stop closing. It wasn't the wind. It was something that had been waiting on that porch for a very long time, and it had learned how to mimic the sound of a person coming home. This is what happened when I tried to leave. #TillerHouse #ScreenDoor #September1995 #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #LunaReads #BoundInBlack #FarmhouseHorror #Porch…
The Door at the White Lake Church, February 1988
In the winter of 1988, I spent three nights in a small church on the shore of White Lake, New Hampshire. The door to the basement would open by itself at exactly 3:03 AM. I went down there on the third night. What I found was not a ghost, not a person, not anything I have words for. But I still have the photograph. I still have the sound it made recorded on a microcassette. And I still wake up at 3:03 every morning, even now. This is what happened inside the White Lake Church, and what followed…
The Mirror at the Marlowe House, February 1992
In February of 1992, a young woman named Elise rented a room at the Marlowe House, a boarding house on the edge of a small town called Darrow. She didn't tell anyone why she was there — just that she needed quiet. But the room had a mirror that someone had covered with a sheet. Elise pulled it off. And what she saw looking back at her was not her own reflection, but a version of herself that had been waiting. This is the story of what happens when you look too long into a mirror that has…
The Footprints in the Snow on Oakwood Lane
In February 1994, during a blizzard that shut down the town of Millbrook for three days, I found a trail of barefoot prints leading from the edge of the woods, across my neighbor's yard, and straight to her front door. There were no tracks leading back. My neighbor, Mrs. Alderman, an elderly woman who lived alone, insisted she hadn't heard the doorbell. But the next morning, the prints were closer. Each night they moved nearer to the house, and each morning she claimed she hadn't seen or heard…
The Locket at the Woodbine Cemetery Gate, November 1998
November 1998. A cold night at the Woodbine Cemetery gate in Millbrook, New York. Luna meets a woman named Cora who is waiting for her daughter to come back through the gate. They talk. The gate is locked. The daughter has been dead since 1989. Cora shows her a locket she wears every night, and tells her what it holds. Luna remembers her own grandmother's hands, the weight of a key she never used. A quiet story about the things we carry to the places we keep returning to, long after anyone else…
The Window at the Fisher House, March 1997
In the spring of 1997, a woman named Eleanor Fisher hired me to catalog the contents of her late mother's attic. The job was straightforward—sort, label, archive. But on the third floor of the Fisher house, there was a window that didn't look out onto the street. It looked into the same room, from the inside. And every night, someone was standing there. This is the story of what I found behind that window, and what it showed me about the last resident of the house. #TheFisherHouse #BoundInBlack…
The Scissors at the Clearwell Barbershop, July 1998
In the summer of 1998, a barber named Ellis Crane in the small town of Clearwell found a pair of antique scissors in a forgotten drawer. They seemed ordinary at first — just old steel, cold to the touch. But when he used them, his customers began to whisper things. Secrets they'd never told anyone. The scissors didn't cut hair — they cut through something else. And Ellis, alone in his shop after midnight, learned that some things are better left unsaid. This is a story about the weight of…
The Key at the Pine Ridge Motel
December 1996. A lone traveler stops at the Pine Ridge Motel off Route 9, a place she's been before but never at this hour. The night clerk hands her a key to room 14, the same room she stayed in two years ago. But the key feels wrong in her hand — lighter, warmer, like it's been held too long. The lock turns too easily. Inside, the room is exactly as she left it, down to the toothbrush on the sink. The horror isn't in what's different. It's in what hasn't changed at all. Luna returns to a…
The Boots on Greyhound Road, April 1998
April 1998. A Greyhound bus breaks down outside a one-stoplight town called Orford, New Hampshire. Luna gets off to stretch her legs and meets a woman named Evelyn who is waiting for something that stopped running years ago. The road is empty. The sky is the color of a bad bruise. Evelyn's story comes out in fragments — a husband who walked into the woods, a set of boots that appeared on the porch each morning, the way the geese stopped flying over the house. Luna listens, and then she sees…
The Letters at the Whitley Post Office, November 1999
November 1999. The Whitley Post Office was the last place you'd expect anything strange to happen — a squat brick building on Main Street with a cracked flagstone floor and a bulletin board of lost cats. But that November, the dead letters started writing themselves. Luna worked the counter three nights a week for extra cash. She remembers the way the fluorescent lights hummed, the smell of dust and stamp glue, and the envelopes that found their way into the system with no postmark, no address…
The Key at the Pine Ridge Motel, August 1996
In August of 1996, my cousin Claire spent a single night at the Pine Ridge Motel off Route 9 in western Massachusetts. She was driving back to college early, trying to beat the heat, and she picked a place that looked cheap and quiet. But the room they gave her, number 14, had a deadbolt on the inside that didn't match the key. And the woman at the front desk kept saying the same thing: 'Don't open the door after midnight, not for anyone, not even if they say they're me.' Claire promised she…
The Map on Rockhouse Road, April 1990
It was spring of 1990, the last spring before my friend Maggie forgot how to look at the sky. I was seventeen, she was sixteen, and we had a map that wasn't for anywhere on this side of the county line. Rockhouse Road ran east out of Erwin, Tennessee, past the old quarry and the defunct sawmill, dead-ending at a gate that said NO TRESPASSING in letters tall as a man. But the gate was always open. The map came from her grandmother's cedar chest, drawn on the back of a grocery list in pencil so…
The Photograph at the Valentine House, October 1996
When Luna's aunt asked her to clean out an abandoned house on Cypress Lane, she expected dust and mouse droppings. What she found in a locked drawer was a single photograph dated October 31, 1996: a family portrait with all four faces scratched out. But the photograph was still developing, the Polaroid still wet. And when she turned it over, the handwriting on the back said 'Don't look at us after dark.' She put it back. She should have left it there. But she didn't. This is a story about a…
The Stairs at the Holloway House, August 1998
August 1998. Luna is nineteen, housesitting for a family she barely knows on the outskirts of a town called Warden's Grove. The house is a Victorian with a third floor sealed off by a padlocked door. The family left her a list of rules: water the plants on Tuesday, take in the mail, and never, under any circumstances, open that door. She obeys for six nights. On the seventh, the scraping starts—slow, rhythmic, like something dragging itself down stairs that don't exist anymore. The story of…
The Bell Jar at the Crescent Motel, February 1995
February 1995. The Crescent Motel outside Pella, Iowa, six rooms, a flickering vacancy sign, and a bell jar on the office counter that held something none of the guests ever mentioned. Luna checked in at two in the morning, exhausted from the highway, and the night clerk — old man named Hollis — told her to keep her room key on her at all times, even in the shower. She thought it was just small-town paranoia. But by the third night, she understood the rule had nothing to do with locks. This is…
The Compass at the Wainwright House, January 1996
In January 1996, my cousin Beth took a temp job organizing the estate of a reclusive collector on the outskirts of a small town called Merton. The house was a Victorian that had been locked up tight for years, and the job was simple — catalog books, sort papers, make piles for donation or auction. But in the study, behind a false panel in the wall, she found a room that wasn't on any floor plan. Inside: a desk, a single lamp, and a compass. Not the kind that points north. This one had a single…
The Pantry at the Beaumont House, September 1991
September 1991. A house-sitting job at the Beaumont place on Old Fork Road, outside a town called Linwood. The house had been empty for years. The owner, Mrs. Beaumont, was in a nursing home a hundred miles away. I was supposed to check for leaks, make sure the pipes didn't freeze, keep an eye on things. What I found in the pantry wasn't on the checklist. A door I hadn't noticed before. A smell like wet earth and something else. And a voice, very small, very patient, asking me to let it out. I…
The Barn on Parsonage Road, October 1993
In October of 1993, a woman named Sarah bought an abandoned barn on Parsonage Road, just outside of Millbrook, New York. She wanted to restore it, to turn it into a home. But the barn had its own plans. The previous owner had left everything inside — tools, tack, a child's shoe. And something else. Something that lived in the hayloft and only moved at night. Sarah learned to leave the loft door closed. She learned not to listen to the creaking of the floorboards overhead. But some sounds demand…
The Billboard on Route 19, October 1997
In October 1997, a man named Carl Pendelton drove past a billboard on Route 19 in Jessup County every day. It advertised a motel that had been demolished in 1983. But the sign never came down—the county just stopped paying for it. Carl started noticing small changes: the lettering looked newer somehow, the phone number at the bottom had a working area code. One night, on a dare from his brother, he called the number. A woman answered. She said her name was Margie, and she'd been expecting him.…
The Vent at the Sunshine Laundromat, July 1999
July 1999. The Sunshine Laundromat on Route 9 in Hadlow, Ohio, stays open until midnight. I was nineteen, broke, and washing every piece of fabric I owned in a single machine because the apartment complex's basement had flooded. The laundromat was almost empty—just me, an old man reading a newspaper folded into quarters, and the dryers. But there was a vent in the back wall, behind the folding tables, that I swear was not there when I walked in. It started as a draft—a cold, thin stream of air…
The Dirt Road off Route 17, November 1994
Luna recalls a night in November 1994 when she took a wrong turn onto a dirt road off Route 17 in the pine barrens of western Georgia. The road didn't appear on any map, and the house at its end wasn't supposed to be there. What she found inside—a single room, a single chair, a single photograph—has stayed with her ever since. This is a story about the roads we aren't meant to find, and the things that wait for us at the end of them. Recorded live at the Fexingo Horror podcast network.…
The Porch on Morningside Drive, 1987
August 1987. A quiet street in Corinth, Mississippi. Luna was eleven, sitting on the front porch of a house that belonged to a woman named Elsbeth. She remembers the heat, the cicadas, the way Elsbeth's rocking chair never stopped. She remembers the girl who came to the door at dusk — barefoot, wearing a sundress that was too thin for the season. The girl didn't speak. She pointed down the street, toward the overgrown lot where the old oak tree used to stand. And Elsbeth said, 'She comes every…
The Well on Procter Road, 1987
An old woman on Procter Road tells Luna about the well behind her house—the one that was sealed in 1987 after three children went missing. She says she still hears them singing at night, their voices rising from underground, asking for a rope. Luna visits the well, and what she finds there makes her understand why the woman never sleeps with the windows open. #BoundInBlack #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Well #MissingChildren #ProcterRoad #1987 #SmallTown #LunaNarrates #FolkHorror…
The Stained-Glass Window at St. Catherine's, 1998
In the winter of 1998, the old St. Catherine's Church on the outskirts of Melling, Virginia, was being deconsecrated. The building was sold to a developer who planned to turn it into a boutique hotel, but one thing held up the sale: the stained-glass rose window over the altar. No one could explain why the window showed a figure that didn't match any saint in the church's records. Luna's grandmother was the parish secretary in 1998, and she kept a journal of the weeks before the demolition crew…
The Bell at Saint Agatha's Mission, 1999
In the winter of 1999, Luna's cousin took a caretaker job at a boarded-up mission outside Ellery, Illinois — a place the locals called the Bell Church, because of the sound it made at night. The priest had vanished. The furnace kept cutting out. And every hour, on the hour, the tower bell rang without anyone in the belfry. This is the story of what she found in the basement, and what she heard when she finally climbed those stairs. No ghosts. No possession. Just a sound that shouldn't have been…
The Diary on Lost Lake Road, 1996
Luna recounts a humid summer night in 1996 when her friend Clara found a waterlogged diary bobbing against the reeds of Lost Lake, just outside the sleepy town of Stillwater. The entries were not written by anyone Clara recognized — but they described her childhood home in unsettling detail, including events that had not yet happened. What began as a curious artifact became a nightly compulsion to read aloud, until Clara began to hear her own voice echoing back from the lake at dusk. A story…
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