Episodes
The Door at Hell-for-Certain Creek
Late October, just before dawn, Luna walks the banks of Hell-for-Certain Creek in Clay County, Kentucky. An old man named Elias tells her about a door that appears in the hillside on nights when the moon is full — a dark oak door with no handle, and something breathing behind it. She goes to see it for herself, and what she finds leaves her with a question she can't shake: who was on the other side, and why did the door vanish? A quiet, intimate story about a threshold that wasn't meant to be…
The Stairs at Laurel Fork Gap
In the fall of 1999, a young man named Eli rented a rundown house on Laurel Fork Gap, deep in the Kentucky hollows. The house had been abandoned for decades, his grandmother's childhood home. He never knew her—she died before he was born. But on the third night, he heard a woman's voice calling from the attic stairs. 'Eli… come see.' The stairs groaned under his feet. The attic held a single room with a vanity and a mirror. In the glass, he saw not himself, but the room as it was in 1958: a…
The Fence at Lonesome Branch
In November 1983, a split-rail fence appeared overnight on a farm at Lonesome Branch, Kentucky. Darrell Jennings touched it and began a nightly pilgrimage to stand before it. His wife Marie watched him walk deeper into the fog until he didn't come back. The fence never rotted, never fell, and the woman who told me this story still drives past it, wondering what it's waiting for. Luna retells a quiet, lingering encounter with a boundary that shouldn't exist. #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast…
The Shed at Rockcastle Creek
In the summer of 1997, Luna stays at her cousin's house in Rockcastle County, Kentucky, at the edge of a hollow smothered in kudzu. Behind the house stands an old shed, padlocked and half-swallowed by vines. Her cousin warns her away, but curiosity wins. Inside, rows of old shoes are arranged neatly, all pointing toward the door. Among them, a pair of red sneakers exactly like the ones she wore as a child. When she touches them, the shoes shift. That night, a silhouette appears in the shed's…
The Night Doctor at Sassafras Ridge
An old woman named Lilah McBee lived alone at the end of Sassafras Ridge, a dirt road winding through a hollow so deep it never saw the sun. In the autumn of 1948, a visitor began coming to her cabin every night—a man in a black coat who called himself a doctor. But he never brought medicine. He only stood outside her window, waiting. Luna tells the story her grandmother passed down: of the night Lilah left a bowl of water and a candle on the porch, and what she found the next morning. A quiet…
The Porch at Rockhouse Fork
Driving home late one November night, Luna takes a wrong turn down Rockhouse Fork and finds a house with a light on. An old woman sits on the porch and tells her stories — not ghost stories, but memories, one after another, until the night grows cold and the car won't start. There is no menace in the woman's voice, only a kind of weariness that feels ancient. But the longer Luna stays, the more she forgets — her name, the year, the way back to the main road. A story about memory as a kind of…
The Woman at Marrowbone Creek Church
Luna recalls a restless night in October 2019 when she drove the back roads of Leslie County, Kentucky, looking for a place to sit with her thoughts. She ended up at an abandoned church on Marrowbone Creek where a woman in a white dress was already standing in the doorway. The woman didn't speak, didn't move, but Luna felt something pull her closer. What she saw inside the church—and what she found the next morning—still makes her take the long way around that hollow after dark. A quiet…
The Whippoorwill at Grapevine Creek
Luna drives through a hollow on a late autumn evening when the whippoorwills have already gone south. She stops at a gas station in a town called Grapevine Creek, looking for directions. The old man behind the counter tells her about a woman who lived up the holler alone, who started hearing a whippoorwill calling from her roof every night, even in winter. He tells her what happens when you answer the bird's call. Luna doesn't sleep well when she gets home. #Whippoorwill #GrapevineCreek…
The Lamplighter at Cutshin Creek
In October of 1998, I spent a week in the small town of Cutshin, Kentucky, helping my aunt clean out her late husband's workshop. The last thing I found was a brass kerosene lantern, still warm to the touch, in a locked drawer. That night, I learned its owner had never used it—he'd answered it. A story about a road that isn't on any map, a light that doesn't flicker, and the man who walks the hollow every night, never getting any closer. #CutshinKentucky #KeroseneLantern #TheLamplighter…
The Wind at Buckhorn Cemetery
Late autumn 1992. Luna's truck broke down on a gravel road outside Buckhorn, Kentucky—a hollow so deep the sun didn't clear the ridge until noon. An old woman named Hester found her, brought her to a house with no electricity, and told her about the wind that comes down from the ridge every October when the oak leaves go dry. Not a storm wind. A listening wind. Hester said it collects voices from the cemetery at the top of the hill—people she buried herself, people who died in the mines, people…
The Road at Midnight Branch Road
Luna tells the story of a man she met at a gas station outside Cottondale, West Virginia, on a November night in 2019. He was driving a white Ford Ranger with a camper shell, heading south on a road that according to every map he owned simply didn't exist past a certain point. He showed her the tire tracks that stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, the smell that came through the vents when he idled there too long, and the thing he saw in his rearview mirror just before he floored it in…
The Bell at Little Creek Primitive Baptist
In the summer of 1987, Luna's grandmother sends her to clean out the basement of the old Primitive Baptist church on Little Creek Road. The church has been abandoned for thirty years, but the basement holds a single room sealed with a padlock. Inside, she finds a bell—not a church bell, but a handbell, brass, tarnished, with a leather-wrapped handle. Strange carvings cover the walls: dates, names, symbols she doesn't recognize. The bell rings without being touched, and Luna begins to understand…
The Hound at Stony Fork Road
Luna remembers a summer night in 1997, idling her car at the Stony Fork bridge in Campbell County, Tennessee, when a hound appeared out of the dark. He was muddy and thin, with a collar that had no tag. She got out to help him. He led her up the hollow, past abandoned tobacco barns and a rusted school bus, to a house where something had been waiting a long time. A story about kindness, and what it pulls out of the woods. Recorded by Luna from her own memory, late one night on the porch.…
The Bell at Little Creek Primitive Baptist
October 1988. Luna's truck breaks down near a ghost town in the Monongahela National Forest. She finds a tiny church with a rope hanging from a bell tower — and a woman who has been ringing it every night for forty years, waiting for her husband to come home from a war that ended long ago. The bell rings at midnight. The rope moves on its own. And the woman does not seem to notice that the church has no floor. A story about waiting, about the sound a person makes when they refuse to stop.…
The Photograph at Low Gap Schoolhouse
Summer 1987, Low Gap, Tennessee. A woman finds an old photograph tucked into a Bible at her grandmother's house. The girl in the picture looks exactly like her, but the photo is dated 1923. When she asks her grandmother about it, the old woman's hands go still. The girl's name was Lyda. She disappeared from the schoolhouse in Low Gap in 1923, the same year the photo was taken. No one ever knew what happened to her. But the photograph has something to tell, and it starts with the way the girl is…
The Wind at Blackberry Creek Schoolhouse
In the summer of 1997, a teacher named Annie Cole took a job at the one-room Blackberry Creek Schoolhouse in Breathitt County, Kentucky. She thought she was escaping the heat of Lexington. She thought she was helping children who had no one else. But the school had been closed for twelve years, and the children who came to her lessons were not the ones on the faded class photo. Each morning, they sat in the same three desks, faces pale as milk, and asked her to read from a book that wasn't in…
The Well at Pigeon Creek Missionary Baptist
Luna recalls a hot August night in 1997 when a woman named Cora Mae Tolliver called the Hollow Country hotline. She lived alone on Pigeon Creek Road, in a house her grandfather built, and she had a well in the backyard that her father sealed in 1963. She said something had been scratching at the concrete cap for three nights — thin, deliberate scratches, like fingernails on slate. Luna drove out before dawn, expecting a raccoon or a loose board. What she found was a well that had no bottom, a…
The Graveyard at Paint Creek Missionary Baptist
On a damp October night in 1997, Luna drove a borrowed pickup down an unmarked gravel road in Leslie County, Kentucky, to help an old man bury his wife in the family cemetery up on Paint Creek. But the grave was already full. What she found there — the wet clay, the empty coffin, the footprints leading away from the hole — has stayed with her longer than any other night in the hollows. A quiet, unsettled story about love, devotion, and the things we pretend not to see when we are standing in…
The Dust at White Oak Creek Church
In the summer of 1998, a man named Harlan Pugh rebuilt a collapsed church deep in White Oak Creek Holler. He worked alone, by kerosene lamp, and he did not use the blueprints the county had on file. Luna's uncle knew Harlan. He visited once, at dusk. The church went up in three months. The day it was finished, Harlan went inside and did not come out. When they found him, his body was dry as paper, and the dust on his clothes was not dust from the lumber. The church stood empty for two years…
The Rope at Bucklick Creek Bridge
September 1987. Luna is twenty-two, driving home through the Cumberland Gap after her grandmother's funeral. She takes a wrong turn onto Bucklick Creek Road, a gravel track that dead-ends at a one-lane bridge over a creek that barely runs. But the bridge isn't empty. A man in a grey wool coat is standing at the railing, coiling a length of hemp rope, calm as if he's been waiting. He doesn't look at her when he speaks. He tells her about the bridge's history—how every thirty years, someone comes…
The Church at Pigeon Roost Hollow
December 1963, Pigeon Roost Hollow, West Virginia. Luna's uncle Luther was a lay preacher who walked fifteen miles every Sunday to hold services in a one-room church that nobody else would go near. The congregation was seven people, always the same seven, and they never spoke a word after the final amen. Luther kept a stack of journals in a tin box under the pulpit — records of prayers that were never answered, names of the dead scratched out and rewritten in fresher ink. When the church burned…
The Bells at Mount Tabor Church
In the late autumn of 2019, Luna drove down a gravel road she'd never noticed before, past a sign for Mount Tabor Church that should not have been there. Inside, a woman named Evelyn was ringing a handbell in the dark, counting intervals of silence between each chime. She said she was waiting for the others to come back — the ones who disappeared from the congregation seventeen years ago, one by one, each vanishing on a night when the bell rang exactly three times. Luna sat on a wooden pew and…
The Bell at Stinking Creek Schoolhouse
December 1973. A retired teacher named Marlene Coots returns to the abandoned Stinking Creek Schoolhouse one last time before it's demolished. She brings a mason jar of kerosene and a box of matches. She tells me what happened there in the winter of 1962 — the week the bell wouldn't stop ringing, even after they cut the rope. She shows me the names carved into the floorboards, and the place where the floor gives way to nothing. By the time she finishes her story, the kerosene is gone and the…
The Bridge at Stillhouse Fork
In October of 2008, I drove out to Stillhouse Fork on a tip from a retired mail carrier named Owen Teague. He said the bridge there—old wooden planks over a creek that never makes a sound—had a way of holding on to things that should have moved on. He told me about a girl in a yellow raincoat who stood at the center of it every evening at dusk, waiting for a school bus that stopped running in 1974. I went to see for myself. I parked at the gravel pull-off and walked out onto the bridge. The…
The Bell at Stinking Creek Schoolhouse
October 1947. Luna's grandmother told her about the autumn she taught alone at a one-room school in the Cumberland foothills—Stinking Creek Schoolhouse—where a brass bell in the cupola began ringing at midnight, even though the clapper had been tied down with wire. No wind. No children. Just the sound of the pull rope going taut in the dark. This is the story of what she found in the attendance ledger, what the county superintendent said when she reported it, and why she never taught another…
The Swimmer at Bee Rock Lake
In the summer of 1998, Luna's cousin Danny disappeared from a Tennessee lake. Four nights later, he showed up at her window, skin pale as milk, clothes soaking wet, talking about what he found under the water. This is the story of what he told her, and what she saw when she finally went back to Bee Rock Lake at midnight with a flashlight and a rowboat. #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #TennesseeHorror #BeeRockLake #Summer1998 #LakeGhost #DrownedMan #CousinDanny #Underwater #MysteriousWaters…
The Coal at Little Brushy Mountain
In the winter of 1992, a stretch of road along Little Brushy Mountain in Breathitt County, Kentucky, began pulling people out of their cars at night. Luna talks to a woman named Cora who lost her husband to the road six months earlier — but he kept coming home. Every night at 3:33 AM, she would hear his boots on the porch and the kitchen door swing open. The thing that came through wore his face, spoke in his voice, but smelled of damp coal and something older. Cora needed to know what came…
The Door at Hoot Owl Holler
In the autumn of 2007, Luna stopped for gas at a derelict station on Hoot Owl Holler Road in eastern Kentucky. The attendant, an old man named Virgil, told her about the door in the hillside—a rusted iron hatch set into the sandstone, marked with symbols he wouldn't name. He warned her not to go looking for it. She went anyway. This episode is a slow-burn encounter with a threshold that should never have been opened. No monsters. No gore. Just a cold wind from a crack in the rock, a sound like…
The Rings at Little Horse Creek Church
In the summer of 2014, a woman named Della Morrow walked into Little Horse Creek Church in Slick Rock, Tennessee, and never walked out. Luna heard the story from a retired deputy who still drives past the church at night. Della was a quiet woman, a widow who kept to herself—until the Sunday she arrived early, alone, and locked herself in the baptistry. The deacon found her sitting in the empty tank, her hands in her lap, wearing a ring on every finger. Not wedding bands—old rings, costume…
The Light at Thorny Mountain Firetower
October 1987. A dry autumn in eastern Kentucky, and the fire towers are staffed around the clock. Luna's uncle Earl takes a week-long shift at Thorny Mountain—a tower that's been closed for years, but this season they're short-handed. He brings his transistor radio, a thermos of coffee, and a .22 rifle for company. The first night, he sees lights moving in the hollows below, but there are no roads down there. The second night, the radio picks up a voice that sounds like his own. By the third…
The Photograph at Low Gap Schoolhouse
In the autumn of 1999, Luna's uncle told her about a photograph that used to hang in the Low Gap Schoolhouse, a one-room building abandoned since the 1950s. The picture showed the class of 1937—except every few years, someone would notice something different about it. A face that shouldn't have been there. A child who didn't belong. Luna went to see the photograph for herself, and what she found in that decaying schoolhouse has stayed with her ever since. This is the story of that photograph…
The Last Light on Buffalo Creek Road
September 1997, just outside the town of Hartsville, Tennessee. A man named Virgil Keener has been leaving his porch light on every night for sixty years — not out of kindness, but out of fear. When the light finally goes out, his niece Callie comes to stay at his farmhouse to find out why. What she finds is not a bulb burned out, and not a story about a man losing his mind. It's a story about a road that runs alongside Buffalo Creek, a road that has been calling to Virgil since he was a boy.…
The Radios at Frozen Head Firetower
In the winter of 2019, a lone fire lookout in the Cherokee National Forest begins hearing voices on the emergency band—calls that repeat verbatim from the day before, then from years before she was born. By the third night, the radios are speaking to each other across decades, and one of them is telling her exactly when the next transmission will arrive. #FrozenHeadFiretower #CherokeeNationalForest #Tennessee #firelookout #emergencyband #radiohorror #disembodiedvoices #timeanomaly #solitude…
The Pig at Bull Creek Slaughterhouse
In the autumn of 1987, a lone pig escaped the slaughterhouse on Bull Creek Road and ran into the woods behind the Fitch family farm. Luna's uncle, a retired butcher, told her the story one October evening while the leaves turned and the air smelled of smoke. The pig was found three weeks later, changed in a way no one could explain. The men who went after it never spoke of what they saw in the hollow that night. But the sound of that pig stayed with them, and with Luna, long after the meat was…
The Lantern at Hurricane Creek Bridge
September 1987, just past midnight on Hurricane Creek Bridge, a narrow span of rusted iron over black water outside the town of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Luna's cousin Harlan — a lineman for the phone company — was driving home when he saw a woman standing at the center of the bridge, holding a kerosene lantern that burned without smoke. She was wearing a white dress stained with creek mud. She did not blink. She did not speak. But when Harlan got out of his truck, he heard the water underneath…
The Kerosene at Beech Creek Church
October 1987. A single kerosene lamp burns all night in the window of Beech Creek Church, deep in a hollow where the fog never lifts. Luna's great-aunt Myrtle has been dead for three weeks, but someone — or something — keeps lighting the lamp she left on the sill. The deacons blame a draft. The pastor prays over it. But Luna watches from the gravel road each night, and she sees what they won't: the silhouette behind the glass that doesn't move like a flame. A slow-burn story about what we leave…
The Night They Tore Down the Moon-Vine Church
In the summer of 1987, the little white church on Hemlock Ridge Road had been empty for thirty years when a crew of three men came to tear it down. Luna's uncle was one of them. He told her later about the thing they found growing inside the walls—a thick, pale vine that smelled like honeysuckle and gave off its own dim light at dusk. And about what happened after they cut it. This is a story about a hole. About something that wanted to be found. Set in a real patch of holler country near Lost…
The Well at Grassy Hollow Church
In the fall of 2016, a woman named Cora Stamey began reporting a sound from the old well behind Grassy Hollow Church in Yancey County, North Carolina—a low, rhythmic humming that seemed to pulse in time with the church's foundation. The deacons dismissed it as groundwater or a faulty pipe, but Cora kept coming back, night after night, sitting at the edge of the well with her hands pressed to the stone lip. When she stopped showing up to Sunday service, the pastor asked me to check on her. I…
The Night the Elk Came to Beech Fork Gap
October of 2016, on the old Beech Fork Road in Harlan County. A woman named Della started seeing an elk in her side yard at dusk — just standing there, not moving, not eating, watching her kitchen window. She called her brother, she called the game warden, she called me. The elk never blinked. By the third night, Della said it had started walking toward the house — one deliberate step per hour, hooves leaving prints that went too deep, like the ground was pushing back. I drove out there with a…
The Last Mail Run on Shut-In Road
In the autumn of 1987, the rural mail carrier on Shut-In Road in Pigeon River Gap, Tennessee, began finding letters in her bag that weren't addressed to anyone—and couldn't be delivered. The envelopes were blank, but heavy; inside each was a single page bearing a name she recognized from the obituaries. The postmaster told her to throw them away. The families she tried to return them to refused to take them. And every night, the last house on her route—a sagging white farmhouse at the dead end…
The Road at Grassy Lick Branch
In late October of 2008, a man named Harlan Gentry drove home from the Piggly Wiggly in Dunmore, West Virginia, and found a new gravel road cut into the hillside where no road had been before. The road led nowhere on any map, but every night for a week, someone walked it. Someone wearing Harlan's dead father's boots. Luna tells the story of the week the dead came walking on Grassy Lick Branch — not ghosts, not memories, but something that wore the shapes of the missing and asked for things by…
The Gate at Lost Ridge Cemetery
June 2023, just past midnight, on a gravel road that switchbacks up Lost Ridge in Morgan County, Tennessee. Luna's cousin Dale calls her with a story he can't shake: a woman he barely knew asked him to dig a grave in the old family cemetery, and he agreed without thinking. The job was simple—shovel, headlamp, a hole in the dark—but something about the way she watched from the gate made him feel like he wasn't the one in control. He finished the grave, and she paid him with a folded bill that…
The Hollow at Shut-In Creek
In the summer of 1998, Luna's cousin Jesse bought a fixer-upper cabin on Shut-In Creek, a winding gravel road off the Blue Ridge Parkway. The place had been abandoned for years, the previous owner vanished without a trace. At night, Jesse heard something moving through the rhododendron — not deer, not bear, but something that walked on two legs and called out in a voice that almost sounded human. Luna came to stay for a week, and they went looking for the source of the sound. What they found at…
The Bones at Devil's Elbow Creek
November 1984. Luna's uncle Roy found something in the shallows of Devil's Elbow Creek, just past the old iron bridge on Route 9. A human skeleton, laid out flat on the gravel bed, arms crossed, skull tilted like it was listening. The county coroner called it a suicide. But the bones didn't stay where they were put. Luna retraces her uncle's steps through that autumn, the way he stopped talking at supper, the wet footprints on his porch, and the night he finally took her down to the creek to…
The Bridge at Calfkiller Creek
In the summer of 1998, Luna's uncle bought an old farmhouse on Calfkiller Creek, a winding blackwater stream in the Tennessee hills. The property came with a concrete bridge that hummed at night—a deep, resonant thrum like a struck tuning fork. No one could explain it. The county surveyor said the bridge was poured in 1933 and had no rebar, just a single steel beam running through its spine. Luna spent a week there, lying on the bridge at midnight, feeling the vibration travel up through her…
The Bell at Wolf Pen Mountain
In October 1987, a solitary bell began ringing at midnight on Wolf Pen Mountain, though no church or school stood there for fifty years. Luna's uncle Harlan, a retired postal carrier, was the first to walk toward the sound and never entirely return. She recounts his slow unraveling over three weeks of sleepless nights, the copper bell he brought down from the ridge, and the silence that follows anyone who hears it ring. A story about inheritance, obsession, and the things we carry home that…
The Crossing at Staggerweed Ford
Luna recounts the story of a man named Elroy who lived alone on a dirt road off Staggerweed Ford, a shallow crossing over a slow-moving creek. Every night for weeks, he heard a knocking at his door exactly at midnight. Three knocks. Always three. He never answered. But the knocking grew louder, and the pauses between knocks grew shorter. When he finally looked through the peephole, he saw nothing—only the porch light flickering over an empty yard. The knocking continued after that, but now it…
The Silence at Hightower Ridge Road
October 2023. Luna drives county road 1817 through the Cherokee National Forest. A man stands at a locked gate wearing a ranger's uniform but carrying no badge. He tells her the ridge is closed for a 'sound study.' He asks if she's heard anything unusual lately. She hasn't. But the way he listens—tilting his head like he's waiting for a frequency only he can detect—makes her roll up the window and drive on. Later that night, camping alone at Hightower Ridge, she hears it: a low hum that isn't…
The Mailbox at Cattail Flats
A woman in the winter of 1997 begins leaving notes in a dead man's mailbox on a long-abandoned gravel road in the Smoky Mountain foothills. At first it is grief and loneliness. Then the notes begin to be answered. But the handwriting is hers. Every line, every word. And the replies speak of things she has never told anyone. By the time the snow melts, she will understand that some mailboxes are not for the living, and some conversations were never meant to be finished. #FexingoHorror…
The Bells at Grassy Creek Church
Luna returns to Grassy Creek, a hollow so deep and narrow that winter sun never touches the valley floor. She goes looking for the old church, where her great-aunt claimed the bells rang on their own every year on the last night of January. What she finds there is not a ghost story — it's a witness. A thing that has been waiting, patient as frost, to be remembered. This episode is about the weight of a family secret, the kind that doesn't die with the people who kept it. It's about a name on a…
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