Episodes
The Mailbox at the End of Rankin Road
In the summer of 2001, Luna's aunt passed away in the small town of Bolivar, Missouri. The house on Rankin Road was empty, but the mailbox kept receiving letters—addressed to the aunt, postmarked from nowhere. Luna began sitting on the porch at dusk, watching the road, waiting for the carrier who never came. The last letter was for Luna. Inside, a single word: 'Mothlight.' And then, from the cornfield beyond the mailbox, a pair of red eyes, watching. A quiet, aching story about grief, rural…
The Moth Room at the Morrison Place
In the summer of 2006, Luna's cousin rented a farmhouse outside the town of Macks Creek, Missouri, and discovered that every room contained a single moth—always awake, always still. What began as an annoyance became an obsession when the moths began to form words with their wing patterns, spelling out messages only she could read. A story about loneliness, the weight of attention, and what happens when something small decides to watch you back. #Mothlight #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast…
The Comb at the Diner on Route 9
Late autumn, 2 a.m., on a rural Missouri highway. Luna recalls a season she worked the graveyard shift at a diner outside Millbrook, where a customer with no name left behind a tortoiseshell comb. The moths that night were thicker than she'd ever seen, and the comb hummed with a warmth that shouldn't have been there. A story about things that are left behind, and the ones who come back to collect them. #Mothlight #HorrorPodcast #FexingoHorror #SoloNarrated #MidwestHorror #TheComb #Route9…
The Chicken Coop at the Holloway Place
In the summer of 2017, Luna found herself drawn to an abandoned farmstead in Dade County, Missouri—specifically, a chicken coop that had been nailed shut for decades. The locals whispered about the Holloway man who disappeared after his wife left, and the sounds that came from that coop at night. When Luna finally pried open the door, she discovered something that had been waiting inside, patient and hungry. This episode is a quiet, creeping descent into rural isolation and the things we board…
The Spiral in the Moth's Wing
Luna sits on her porch in Bentwood, October night, watching moths circle the light. She notices one with a spiral pattern on its wing—then another, and another. All from the same direction: the abandoned Miller place. She follows, finds a barn full of silent moths glowing from within, and a pair of red eyes in the loft. She runs home, but the eyes keep coming closer. Now she can't turn off the light. A slow-burn story about curiosity, pattern, and what waits at the edge of the field.…
The Shape in the Field Near Gentryville
Late October 1999. A wrong turn on Foster Road outside Gentryville, Illinois, leads Luna to a cornfield where a figure stands motionless at dusk. As she draws closer, she recognizes the dress worn by a woman who vanished months earlier—and what she sees in that face is not human. A story about roads you don't remember taking and the things that wait in the places you don't mean to go. #Gentryville #Illinois #Cornfield #MissingWoman #Shape #Dusk #FosterRoad #1999 #October #WrongTurn #Mothlight…
The Photograph at the Airstream in Taney County
Summer 1993. A woman named Marguerite lives alone in a vintage Airstream trailer at the edge of a hayfield in Taney County, Missouri. She collects old photographs from estate sales and flea markets, and pins them to the wall of her trailer. One night, she finds a Polaroid that shows a woman who looks exactly like her, standing beside the same Airstream, thirty years earlier. The window in the trailer behind them is dark — but in Marguerite's trailer, that same window has been glowing all along.…
The Light at the Crossroads in Pike County
On a September night in 2017, Luna's car died on a gravel road outside of Pike County, Missouri. No cell service, no houses in sight. She walked toward a distant glow, a single light at a four-way stop where nothing should have been. The woman in the red truck offered a ride, but Luna couldn't shake the feeling that the light itself was waiting for her—and still is. A quiet, slow-burn ghost story about the roads we shouldn't follow and the kindness that isn't. #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast…
The Keyhole at the Haines House in Strafford
October of 1997. A storm rolling in over the Ozarks. I was house-sitting for a woman named Margaret Haines in the town of Strafford — a favor for a friend of a friend, nothing I thought twice about. The house was old, two stories, set back from the road with a wraparound porch and a keyhole on the bedroom door that didn't match any lock in the house. I noticed it the first night — the way the light in the hallway bent through it strange, like the glass was thicker on one side. By the third…
The Telephone at the Crossroads in Hickory County
In the summer of 1987, a payphone at a rural crossroads in Hickory County, Missouri, began ringing every night at exactly 2:17 AM. No one ever answered it — until a traveler named Elroy stopped to pick up the receiver. What he heard changed the way I think about roads, and about the people who vanish on them. Luna tells the story of the last night that phone rang, and what Elroy told her the next morning — sitting on her porch, drinking coffee, staring at the cornfield as if something was…
The Gravel Pit at Midnight, Otter Creek County
When the summer drought of 1997 cracked the clay of Otter Creek County, it also cracked something in the town of Spurville. The teenagers had a tradition: drive to the old gravel pit after midnight, park with the headlights off, and see who could last the longest in the dark. But that August, the pit gave back something the dredge had churned up decades ago. One girl, Marie Bishop, saw it first — a figure made of wet gravel and pond scum, standing at the edge of the water, waiting for someone…
The Switch at the Mercyville Water Tower
September 1989. A dry autumn in Mercyville, Indiana, population 312. Luna's cousin Annie had lived there her whole life, in the same white clapboard house her grandfather built, at the end of a gravel road that dead-ended at the water tower. The tower had been decommissioned in '72, but the light on top still came on every night at dusk, flickered twice, then went dark. Annie said it was just a faulty timer. But the timer had been removed. And the switch was inside a locked control room at the…
The Last Bell at St. Agnes School, Cottonwood County
Luna remembers a night in late August 2017, when a friend from high school called her out of a dead sleep. Claire had been a skeptic her whole life — until the bells started ringing in the empty school across the street from her rental house in Cottonwood, Kansas. Luna drove forty minutes to sit with her on a sagging porch, listening to a sound that had no source. The building had been locked for seven years. No one had a key. But the bell rang every night at 2:47, and the rhythm was wrong…
The Radio at the Last Gas Station in Thayer
It was August in Thayer, Missouri, a town where the last gas station on the highway still had a pay phone and a pump that rang a bell. Luna stopped for gas at midnight and found the old man who ran the place—a man who hadn't left the station in forty years, except he always left, every night, somewhere inside the static of a battered transistor radio. The radio never played music, only voices: his wife, his daughter, a neighbor who'd died in '83. And the voices always asked for the same thing.…
The Last Light at the Broken Windmill in Harper County
It's 1997, late September, and Luna is driving through the Oklahoma panhandle when her headlights catch a windmill that shouldn't be turning. No wind for hours. Every blade spins backward. She pulls off the highway and finds a man named Emmett sitting on the tailgate of a rusted pickup, staring at the blades like they owe him something. He tells her about the light that comes up from the well beneath the mill—a pale green glow that hums in the bones—and about the woman he used to meet there…
The Dress at the Washateria in Okeechobee
In the summer of 2009, I worked the overnight shift at a coin laundry on the edge of Okeechobee, Florida. The heat never broke. The machines hummed through the small hours, and most nights were just me, a stack of paperbacks, and the occasional drifter washing everything they owned. But there was a woman who came in every Wednesday around two in the morning, always carrying a single garment in a plastic bag—a white dress with tiny blue flowers. She would wash it on delicate, dry it on low, fold…
The Tree That Grew Around Itself in New Madrid County
A woman living alone on a farm near New Madrid, Missouri, notices a peculiar tree in her backyard — a sycamore that appears to have grown around something at its center. As she investigates, she discovers the tree has been swallowing objects left by the previous resident, each one a clue to a story she was never meant to find. What begins as curiosity turns into an unsettling obsession, and the tree seems to respond to her attention. Late one autumn night, she realizes the tree has been growing…
The Sewing Machine at the Pines Motel in Fawn County
October 1998. A woman alone at the Pines Motel in Fawn County, Illinois. She's there to photograph the empty cornfields for a book project nobody will publish. But the motel has a history, and the room next door has a sewing machine that runs all night. She starts noticing things — the way the curtains stay still when the window is open, the scent of lavender where no lavender grows, the woman in the photograph in the lobby who wears the same dress as the woman in the room. This is a story…
The Storm Cellar on County Road 17 in Morley
In the summer of 1998, a woman named Ellen lived alone on a failing farm outside Morley, Missouri. She kept a storm cellar beneath her kitchen, not for tornadoes but for something else — something that came up from the ground at night. After a month of drought and strange heat, the cellar door began to rattle. What she found inside was not shelter. This is a story about the things we bury, the things that wait, and the way the dark can learn to speak your name. #Mothlight #FexingoHorror…
The Dry Well at Barren Creek in Cotton County
Luna recounts a night in late October 2019 when a childhood friend, Annie Marchetti, called her after twenty years of silence. Annie had gone back to their hometown in Cotton County, Oklahoma, to settle her late grandmother's farm. But the farm wasn't empty. Something had been living in the dry well behind the barn—something that had been there since they were kids, watching them play. Annie's voice on the phone was thin, cracked. She said she'd found a bundle of old dolls at the bottom of the…
The Silo at Moon Hill in Grand River County
October 1998, just past midnight on a dirt road outside a town called Grand River. My cousin Caleb and I were driving back from a party when we saw a light in a silo that had been abandoned for thirty years. The silo stood alone in a bare field, a concrete cylinder with a rusted ladder bolted to the side. The light came from the top opening—a pale glow that pulsed, like a heartbeat made visible through bone. Caleb pulled over because he wanted to see what it was. He was that kind of person. The…
The Screen Door on Orchard Lane in Cairo
Summer 2007. A woman named Elara moves back to her late grandmother's house in Cairo, Illinois, a small town at the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. The house is unchanged since her childhood summers—the same floral wallpaper, the same creaking stairs, the same screen door that never quite latched. But something else has remained too. Something that waits in the upstairs hallway at night. Something that sounds like a wooden screen door opening and closing, opening and closing…
The Survey Stake at Hawthorn Hill in Wabash County
In the summer of 1997, Luna's uncle took a temporary job with the county surveyor's office in Wabash County, Illinois. He was sent to mark boundary lines on a stretch of undeveloped land known locally as Hawthorn Hill — a low ridge covered in old-growth trees and underbrush that no one had touched in decades. The first week was uneventful. The second week, he started finding stakes already in the ground — driven deep, with fresh pink flagging tape, placed in precise alignment with the…
The Well at Hargrave Farm in Pettis County
In the summer of 1997, Luna's cousin Della took a job cataloging junk at a crumbling farmstead outside Sedalia, Missouri. The owner was a woman named Marguerite Hargrave, who hadn't left the property in forty years and refused to discuss the stone well in the back pasture. Della started hearing sounds at night—a wet, rhythmic slap from the well, like something trying to climb. When she finally looked, she saw a hand, pale and waterlogged, gripping the edge. The fingers were long, too long, and…
The Fog on Hawk Road Near Dunn Grove
In the autumn of 2017, Luna drove a back road in Dunn Grove, Missouri, and found a fog that didn't move with the wind. It hung over a stretch of Hawk Road like a held breath, swallowing sound and headlights equally. She met an old man named Mr. Tolliver who stood at the edge of his property every night, watching the fog with a lantern he never lit. He told her about the things that walk inside it — not people, but shapes that remember being people. Luna stayed too long, and when she tried to…
The Locked Room at the Belvidere Motor Lodge
In October of 1998, Luna's uncle told her about a night he spent at the Belvidere Motor Lodge outside Wymore, Nebraska—a two-story motel with a neon sign that buzzed like a trapped fly. He checked in late, took room 212, and woke at 3:03 AM to the sound of a key turning in the lock of the adjoining door. The door was bolted on his side, but the lock clicked anyway, and someone—something—began to knock. Not on the door itself, but on the wood of the frame, from inside the wall. This is what he…
The Last Pump at the Spur in Gentry County
Luna recalls a July night in 1997 when she stopped for gas at a lonely station on a Missouri back road. The attendant wore a cracked smile and kept saying the pump would run dry at midnight. She watched the clock tick over while something scratched inside the tank. This is a story about waiting, about the taste of gasoline on a hot night, and about what came out when the last drop fell. No jump scares. Just a lingering dread that stayed with her long after she drove away. #Mothlight…
The Last Canning Jar at the Root Cellar in Poinsett
October 1987, the root cellar beneath the old Lattimer place on Sourwood Road in Poinsett, South Dakota. My grandmother's cousin kept a pantry down there—shelves of preserves, pickled beets, and one jar she said no one was ever to open. The year I turned nineteen, I went down to count the jars and found the last one on the top shelf. The label read '1980' in my great-aunt's hand, and when I held it to the lantern light, something inside it moved. This is a story about what gets sealed away in…
The Switch at the Grange Hall in Minton
Minton, Nebraska, had a Grange Hall that nobody used anymore. A hundred-year-old building with a tin roof and a single light switch in the pantry that, if you flipped it at exactly 3:27 AM, would light a room that wasn't there. Luna's friend Cora first told her about it one humid July night in 2017, standing barefoot on the gravel outside. They drove out together, a cracked cell phone flashlight leading the way past collapsed hay rakes and stacks of yellowed newspapers. The switch was warm to…
The Last Bus on County Line Road
Luna remembers a September evening in 1999 when the last school bus of the season ran late through the hollows of Breckinridge County, Kentucky. The driver was a woman named Maybell who always took the long way home. That night, the road was different—the turns were wrong, the fields stretched too far, and the children on board counted passengers who weren't there when they started. Luna was the last one off that bus, and she still wakes up some nights with the smell of wet oats and the sound…
The Last Room at the Blue Moon Motel in Yuma
June 1987, just off a two-lane blacktop south of Yuma, Colorado. The Blue Moon Motel has twelve rooms arranged in an L-shape around a cracked asphalt lot. Room Twelve is at the far end, windows painted shut, the air so still you can taste the dust. I stayed there one night because I was too tired to keep driving. What I found in that room — not in the walls or under the bed but in the space between the dresser mirror and the wallpaper — wasn't a ghost. It was something that had always been…
The Cell at the Depot in Verona
October 2022. Verona, Illinois. A town with a defunct train depot and a volunteer fire department. Luna's cousin, Sam, took a job as a night watchman at the depot, a job that had been open for six months because no one would stay. The depot was a museum during the day, but at night it was just a building full of old things. Sam heard the phone ringing from inside the ticket booth. An old rotary phone, disconnected for thirty years. He picked it up anyway. He heard his own voice on the other…
The Wire at the Wayfarer Motel in Truth County
On a dead stretch of 2-lane blacktop in central Nebraska, there is a motel called the Wayfarer that no longer appears on any map. Luna’s truck broke down there at 2:34 a.m. in October of 2017. The owner—a thin man named Stroud—gave her the last room without asking for payment. He only asked that she not unplug the lamp. The lamp had no bulb. The cord ran into a hole in the baseboard. And at 3:17, the wire began to hum. Not electricity—something older, something that wanted to be heard. This is…
The Field Recorder at Black Oak Ridge
In the summer of 1987, a sound engineer named Cora drove out to Black Oak Ridge, Illinois, to capture the ambient noise of the cornfields at night. She set up her reel-to-reel recorder near the old Threshing Ring, hoping for crickets and wind. What she caught on tape was a voice—low, scraping, moving through the stalks at walking pace. The voice knew her name. It knew what she'd done three summers ago. And it kept asking her to come closer. Cora didn't sleep that night. She didn't leave the…
The Church at Dry Creek Crossing
In the autumn of 1987, a traveling photographer named Eleanor Mayhew stopped at a white clapboard church at the crossroads of Dry Creek and Old State Road. The church had no congregation, no pastor, and a door that swung open on its own whenever the wind died. Eleanor was documenting abandoned places for a book, but the church chose her. She spent three nights in its bell tower, watching the road, speaking to someone who answered from the walls. This is her account, pieced together from the…
The Last Light at the Grain Elevator in Tilden
A farmer in Tilden, Nebraska, notices his grain elevator's beacon has been blinking wrong for three nights—not a pattern the FAA would approve, not a pattern that matches any known light. He calls the county road crew, but the man who answers says the elevator was decommissioned in 1987, and nobody has touched its lamp in twenty years. That night, alone in his pickup with a pair of binoculars, he watches the light pulse in a rhythm that feels like a language he almost understands. Then the corn…
The Barn at Mallow Creek
Late autumn, 1998. A woman named Diane inherits her uncle's farmhouse outside the dead-end town of Mallow Creek, Iowa. The barn is the only structure she can't bring herself to enter—not for any reason she can name. Just a feeling. A smell. A humming sound that starts at dusk. This is the story of what she found on the third night, when the wind shifted and the moon was full and the doors swung open on their own. Luna tells it the way Diane told her: in fragments, in whispers, in the gaps…
The Radio at Little Creek Diner
A short-order cook at an all-night diner outside Harristown, Illinois starts picking up a voice on the radio that sounds exactly like her dead daughter. The signal is faint at first, then clearer. The voice knows things only her daughter could. But the radio hasn't been plugged in for three years. Luna stays late one night to hear it for herself, and what she hears changes what she believes about the dead, the living, and the thin wires that run between them. #LittleCreekDiner…
The Hayloft at Bellbrook Stock Farm
Late October 1997, Luna's cousin rents a rundown farmhouse outside Bellbrook, Ohio. The property comes with a hayloft full of old horse blankets and a landlord who insists the upstairs door stay bolted. By the third night, the wind through the cracks starts to sound almost like language—and something begins answering from the field. #BellbrookOhio #Hayloft #HorseBlankets #CousinMiles #October1997 #RentalFarmhouse #LockedDoor #WindInTheCracks #FieldAnswers #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast…
Signal at Lost Creek Fire Tower
In the summer of 2012, I spent a week alone at the Lost Creek Fire Tower in the Kettle Moraine region of Wisconsin. The tower had been decommissioned for years, but a friend of a friend who worked for the forest service let me stay there to record ambient sound for a project I never finished. The first three nights were uneventful — just wind and the creak of the metal ladder and the distant buzz of a gravel pit that ran all night. But on the fourth night, the radio in the cab came to life on…
The Last Payphone at Belle Fourche Crossing
In August of 2003, the last working payphone in Belle Fourche, South Dakota sat in a gravel lot behind a boarded-up gas station. It rang every night at 11:47. It rang for two weeks before anyone answered it. Luna heard the story from a man named Wayne who'd worked the night shift at the grain elevator across the road. He told her about the voice on the other end — a girl's voice, young, saying the same nine words every time. He told her about the night he finally walked over and picked up the…
The Light in the Cornfield on Dobbs Road
In the summer of 2017, I drove past a cornfield on Dobbs Road in rural Indiana every night on my way home from the second shift. Around two in the morning, I started noticing a light—not a porch light or a car, but a single pale glow bobbing among the stalks. I told myself it was a farmer checking irrigation. I told myself that for three weeks. Then one night the light was no longer moving through the corn—it was standing at the edge of the road, waiting. This is what I saw when I finally…
The Switchboard at Half-Moon Junction
It was the summer of '83, and Luna's cousin Rose took a temporary job at the telephone exchange in Half-Moon Junction, a town so small the switchboard only lit up at night. Rose said the calls started coming in after midnight—always the same number, always a child's voice asking for someone who'd been dead for years. Luna shares what Rose told her about the night the calls followed her home, and what she saw in the upstairs window of the boarding house. A story about the line between the living…
The Station at Midnight on Route 9
It's late summer of 2017, just past two in the morning, and Luna's car is running on fumes somewhere between Nowhere and Noplace on a county road that's too dark to walk. The only light for miles is a single gas station—old pumps, a flickering sign, a clerk who doesn't blink enough. She's been here before, in a way. The station sells things it doesn't advertise. The coffee tastes like copper. The clerk knows her name before she speaks it. And the digital readout on the pump shows a dollar…
The Last Call at the Gas N Go in Tawney Falls
In the summer of 2004, I worked the midnight shift at a gas station off Route 9 in Tawney Falls, Iowa. The town was mostly boarded up by then—just the station, a diner that closed at nine, and a lot of empty houses with dried-out lawns. I didn't mind the quiet until the woman started coming in. She'd appear at the register around two in the morning, never bought gas, always asked for directions to a place that wasn't on any map. Her face was pale and blurred at the edges, like a photograph left…
The Well at Wolf Creek School
In the fall of 1992, a single-room schoolhouse in Wolf Creek, Kansas still stood at the edge of a plowed field. Luna's grandmother taught there in the 1950s and told her about the well in the yard — how the children were forbidden from going near it, how one boy named Samuel disappeared on an October afternoon, and how the well was later sealed but never filled. Decades later, Luna visits the site and finds the iron grate over the well has been pried loose. What she hears from the dark mouth of…
The Silo at Cottonwood Crossing
In the fall of 2016, Luna's cousin rented a farmhouse outside Cottonwood Crossing, Iowa. The silo on the property had been sealed for decades, but every night at 2:33 AM, something began knocking from the inside. Luna stayed with him for a week, recording the sounds, watching the red light flicker through the rusted seams. She never learned what was trapped in there—only that it had learned to knock in patterns that spelled out full sentences, and that it knew her name before she ever set foot…
The Water Tower at Trestle Creek
In the summer of 2018, I spent two weeks at my aunt's farmhouse outside Trestle Creek, Illinois. I was supposed to be recovering from something, but the quiet only made it worse. Every night I walked the gravel roads, trying to walk the restlessness out of my bones. The water tower stood at the edge of town, a rusted iron skeleton against the cornfields. And every night, I saw someone standing at its base. Not walking toward it. Not walking away. Just standing there, looking up. I never saw…
The Room at the End of the Hall at the Sunfish Motel
August in Millbrook, Indiana, where the heat doesn't break even at midnight. I stayed one night at the Sunfish Motel off Route 47, a place that looked like it hadn't seen a guest in years. The room at the end of the hall—room 12—had a light on when I checked in, and the manager told me to leave it alone. But at three in the morning, I heard someone crying through the wall. Not a guest. Not anyone living. A story about a bride who never checked out, a wedding dress hanging in a closet for thirty…
The Starlight Motel at Three in the Morning
Luna recounts a night in August 2019 when her car died outside Blaine, Oklahoma, and a motel clerk named Dwayne let her into a room that was already taken. Not by a guest, but by a presence that had been waiting for years. The Starlight Motel had thirteen units, a flickering neon sign, and a maintenance closet that was never unlocked. Dwayne wore a name tag that said 'Manager' and a look that said he hadn't slept in a decade. He told her about the room—number seven, where the last guest had…
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