Episodes
The Wet Shirt at the All-Night Laundromat on Mulberry Street
November 17th, 3 AM. The tired woman behind the counter at the all-night laundromat on Mulberry Street tells Luna about a regular she wishes she'd never met. He comes every night, same grey coat, same single load, same wet clothes that never dry. Luna listens, then goes to see for herself. What she finds inside a dryer drum isn't laundry. It's a message from someone who's been waiting a long time. A slow-burn story about repetition, obligation, and the things we leave behind—literally.…
The Payphone at the Millbrook Rest Stop
A call comes in at 3:17 AM from a payphone at a rest stop outside Millbrook. The woman on the line—Ellie—is fleeing something in her bedroom: a tall man in a wet coat who has started to step closer each night. Luna listens, offers what comfort she can, but the call takes a turn she didn't expect. And when the line goes dead, the shadow in her own room seems darker than before. Another sleepless night on the sleep paralysis hotline. #SleepParalysisHotline #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Payphone…
The Call at 2:14 AM from Poplar Street
Luna takes a late-night call on the Sleep Paralysis Hotline from a man named Daniel in Crestwood. He is frozen, unable to move, with a dark figure at the foot of his bed. But when the figure begins to speak, it whispers about Luna herself. The call unravels as Daniel's voice changes, and Luna is left questioning what reached through the line. Set in an anonymous bedroom, this episode explores the thin boundary between dreaming and listening, and what happens when the thing in the dark knows you…
The Voicemail from Room 8 at the Pines Motor Lodge
In October of last year, I checked into a motel on the edge of Cedar Falls — a place called The Pines Motor Lodge. It was after midnight, the parking lot half-empty, the sign buzzing. I didn't plan to stay, but the road was closed and I was too tired to go further. That night, I experienced sleep paralysis for the first time in years — but what I saw at the foot of the bed wasn't a shadow or a hag. It was a man holding a cordless phone, and he spoke a number. I wrote it down before I was fully…
The House on Birch Lane
Three winters ago, I house-sat for my aunt in the small town of Ashford. The house on Birch Lane was quiet, ordinary—until the sleep paralysis started. Each night, the same figure: a woman in a pale blue bathrobe, dripping wet, standing at the foot of the bed. Each night, she pointed at the closet and whispered a single name. A story about inherited grief, cold water, and the rooms we should never sleep in. #SleepParalysisHotline #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Anthology #Ashford #BirchLane…
The Night the Car Wash Talked Back at SuperSuds on County Road 8
In February of 2019, Jessie took the midnight shift at the SuperSuds Car Wash on County Road 8, a place so quiet after midnight you could hear the gravel settling. She thought the banging from bay 3 was a drunk customer stuck inside—until she found the bay empty and the sprayer running itself. The automatic tunnel kept a car that wasn't there, and the shape inside it wore a uniform that had no business in a car wash. Luna tells the story of a night that turned a job into a slow, cold terror…
The Bell at the Oakridge Church on Meridian Street
Luna recalls a night in late autumn 2019 when the bell of the old St. Agnes church started ringing at 3:17 a.m. — not the clock chime, but a slow, deliberate toll like a funeral knell. She walked to the church to find the doors unlocked and the bell rope swaying with no one there. The next night, the same bell tolled again, and this time she followed the sound to the basement, where a single candle burned beside an open grave in the floor. The grave was empty, but the dirt beside it was warm. A…
The Night the Refrigerator Started Humming on Maple Street
It's a little after three in the morning on a dead-end street in Oakridge, the kind of August night where the air doesn't move and every house is dark. Luna can't sleep. She's in the kitchen getting water when the refrigerator—an old white GE that's been in the house since the seventies—starts humming a note it has never hummed before. Not a mechanical sound. A note. A low, vibrating tone that seems to come from inside the walls, from the floorboards, from the earth under the foundation. She…
The Cat on Meridian Street
It was the summer of 2003, the worst heat wave in thirty years, and I was staying with my grandmother in her old house on Meridian Street in Oakridge. Every night around three, the same thing: the phone would ring once, then stop. No one on the line. My grandma said it was just a glitch in the wiring. But I started seeing a cat on the porch — a scrawny black cat with a white spot on its chest. It would sit there staring through the screen door. And then one night, I answered the phone. The…
The All-Night Diner on Route 17
It's three in the morning in mid-January at a diner on a frozen stretch of Route 17. Luna stops for coffee and meets a waitress who's been working the same shift for years, a cook who never speaks, and a man sitting alone in the back booth who never orders. She watches the man because something about him is off — the way he stares at the wall, the way his mouth moves without sound. When she finally looks away and looks back, he's gone, but his coffee cup is still full and steaming. The waitress…
The All-Night Pharmacy on Meridian Street
Luna recounts a night in late October 2022 when a friend called from a 24-hour pharmacy in the town of Meridian, Ohio. The pharmacist had been acting strangely—refilling prescriptions no one had ordered, handing out bottles with labels that bore names from the obituaries. By the time Luna arrived, the fluorescent lights were humming too low, the automatic doors were cycling open to an empty parking lot, and her friend was locked in the break room, whispering about the pills that were never…
The Study Lamp on Maple Street
In the summer of 2003, Luna's friend Anna inherited a house on Maple Street in the small town of Ridgefield, Indiana. The property had been vacant for years, left by an elderly aunt who died without children. Anna asked Luna to help clean out the attic, where they found a locked trunk containing a single item: a brass study lamp with a frayed cord and a note that read 'Do not plug in after midnight.' Anna plugged it in anyway, at 11:58 PM. What followed was a night of creeping dread, a shadow…
The Man in the Truck Stop Shower on Route 17
It's the summer of 2006, a sweltering July night, and Luna's car breaks down outside of Oakridge, a town that already feels wrong even before the sun goes down. She limps into the only place still open: the Route 17 Truck Stop, a fluorescent-lit island of bad coffee and buzzing coolers. The lot is mostly empty, the air inside is thick with the smell of diesel and floor cleaner. But it's the bathroom down the narrow hallway that she can't stop thinking about—the man in the truck stop shower, the…
The All-Night Dry Cleaner on Route 17
It's three in the morning in early December, and the only light on Route 17 comes from a dry cleaner's neon sign. Luna pulls over because she needs a minute—headlights flickering, road hypnotic. The woman behind the counter is pale, precise, and never blinks. She takes Luna's jacket, pins a ticket to it, and points to a row of hanging garments. They all look alike. They all smell the same. And when Luna finally gets her jacket back, it's not hers. Not anymore. This is a story about…
The Night the Lights Stayed On at the Oakridge Bowladrome
It was the last shift before they tore it down, the old bowling alley on Route 9. Luna took the graveyard shift at the Oakridge Bowladrome, just to keep the place company one final night. The pinsetters were silent, the lanes freshly oiled, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in a way they never had before. Around 3 AM, the lights stopped humming—they just stayed on, but wrong. And the machines started cycling themselves, one pin at a time, as if someone was playing a game on the far lane…
The Night the Payphone Rang at the Oakridge Bus Depot
Luna remembers a bitter November night in 2019, when she was waiting for the last bus out of Oakridge and the payphone on the platform started ringing. No one was supposed to be there. The depot had been closed for hours. She answered it because the ringing was relentless—and because she thought it might be her mother calling from the hospital. The voice on the other end was not her mother. It was a man who knew her name, knew she was alone, and knew exactly what she was running from. He spoke…
The Front Desk at the Oakridge Budget Inn
Luna recounts a night in July 2019 when she worked the graveyard shift at a rundown motel on the outskirts of Oakridge. A woman in a beige coat checked in at 2:17 AM, paid cash for room 114, and asked for a second keycard. When Luna went to deliver it an hour later, the room was empty. The keycard sat on the nightstand next to a telephone receiver off the hook. The line was still open. Someone was breathing on the other end. Not the woman. Something else. This is a story about what you hear…
The Night the EKG Flatlined at Oakridge General
December 16th, 2:47 AM. Oakridge General Hospital, third floor, cardiac wing. Luna recounts the night her ex-boyfriend's mother coded and what she saw in the room that no nurse could explain. The patient was 72, DNR, drifting in and out of sedation. The monitors said flatline for forty-seven seconds before the alarm ever sounded. What Luna heard in those seconds — a wet rhythmic pulse from under the bed, a voice that spoke in her own mother's cadence — has nothing to do with medical error. This…
The Phone at the All-Night Laundromat on Route 9
Luna recalls a night in late November, driving through a rain that turned to sleet on the outskirts of Oakridge. Her friend Cora had called from the all-night laundromat on Route 9, her voice strange—not scared exactly, but hollow, like she was reading from a script she didn't understand. By the time Luna got there, the place was empty. The machines were running, a single washer sloshing through a dark load, and the phone on the wall—an old rotary, out of place in that fluorescent room—was off…
The Gravel on the Shoulder of Route 17
A woman stops at a deserted rest area on Route 17 outside Oakridge at 2 AM, pulled over by a sudden exhaustion that feels wrong. She sees a man in a high-vis vest standing near a pickup truck, his face turned away. The gravel crunches when he moves, but he never takes his eyes off the dark tree line. She calls the hotline to stay awake, but the operator's voice is too calm, and the line clicks open with a sound she knows she has heard before. This is a story about what waits on the shoulder…
The Firewatch at Clearwater Lookout
Luna recalls a summer she spent alone in a fire lookout tower on Wolf Ridge, outside the town of Clearwater. The job was simple: scan the treeline for smoke, log the hours, keep the radio on. But the tower had been empty for two seasons before she took it, and the previous watchman had left his logbook behind. His last entries weren't about fires. They were about something that came at night, from the direction of the old mining road. Something that walked on two legs but didn't move like a…
The Night Clerk at the Oakridge Gas Station
Somewhere on the outskirts of Oakridge, a gas station stays open all night. The night clerk, a man named Hollis, hasn't spoken to a customer in weeks. He just sits behind the counter, staring at the pumps. One night, a woman pulls in. Her car is fine. She doesn't need gas. She just needs to tell someone what she saw on the road behind her. Hollis doesn't respond. But the shape in the passenger seat of her car does. A story about roadside hollows, the things that follow taillights, and why night…
The Night Manager at the All-Night Gas Station on Route 17
Luna pulls over at a gas station off Route 17, somewhere past Oakridge, at 3 AM on a Tuesday in late October. The place is old — a single pump, a flickering sign, a bell on the door. Inside, a man in a blue uniform sits behind a counter cluttered with candy bars and lottery tickets. He does not look up when she enters. He does not speak. He only stares at a small black-and-white security monitor showing a live feed of the empty parking lot — and the thing standing in it, just beyond the light.…
The Night-Soil Man on Dove Creek Road
For three nights in a row, a man in a wide-brimmed hat stood beside the gravel road that runs past my grandmother's farm. He never moved. He never spoke. But on the third night, I found a fresh pile of dark earth at the foot of her driveway. This is the story of what I saw from the porch of the old white house on Dove Creek Road, in the late summer of 1997, when the heat didn't break and the sky stayed a strange bruised color after sunset. #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #SleepParalysisHotline…
The Service Road at the Oakridge Water Tower
It's summer 1999, and the heat never breaks. Luna's car overheats on a gravel service road behind the Oakridge water tower, and she walks to a nearby house to use the phone. The woman who answers the door has a quiet, hollow voice and a house that smells like wet plaster. She offers water, a phone, and a story that doesn't end. Luna stays the night, and in the morning she understands why the service road is never used. A slow-burn encounter with grief, loneliness, and the shape that waits in…
The Man at the All-Night Laundromat on Route 9
It's late November, just past midnight, and the only place open on the stretch of Route 9 that runs through Oakridge is the 24-hour laundromat next to the closed gas station. Luna goes there because her apartment's washing machine broke, and she's tired of wearing the same sweater. Inside, a man is folding clothes at the center table—slowly, methodically, like he's been at it for hours. He doesn't look up when she walks in. He doesn't look up when she loads her machine. He doesn't look up when…
The Stove at the Oakridge Diner
It was the summer of 2008, just after midnight, when Luna stopped at the Oakridge Diner on old Route 22. The place was nearly empty—a waitress named Darla, a cook named Frank, and a man in a booth who never touched his coffee. But it was the stove that kept calling to her. A gas range in the back, burners lit with low blue flames, even though no one was cooking. The heat felt wrong, like it was radiating from something deeper than the pilot lights. And the man in the booth—he turned to her and…
The Kitchen Light on Ponderosa Lane
It's late July 2008 in Oakridge, Pennsylvania. I'm house-sitting for my aunt on Ponderosa Lane—a quiet cul-de-sac where nothing ever happens. But every night at 2:33 AM, the kitchen light flicks on by itself. I thought it was a wiring issue. Then I started seeing the silhouette of a woman standing at the stove, her back to me, slowly stirring something that wasn't there. I never went downstairs after that, but the light kept turning on. And on the last night, I heard the cabinet door open—the…
The Night Manager at the Oakridge Motel
A weary traveler checks into the Oakridge Motel on a sweltering July night in 1994. The night manager is courteous, maybe too courteous, and never stops smiling. Room 8 has a ceiling fan that ticks like a metronome and a crack in the baseboard that seems to breathe. At 3:17 AM, the phone rings, and the voice on the other end sounds exactly like the night manager — except the front desk has been locked and empty since midnight. Luna tells the story of what she found behind the office door marked…
The Payphone at the Oakridge Truck Stop
Luna recalls a late-night phone call from a payphone on the outskirts of Oakridge, by the all-night truck stop on Route 17. It was October, two autumns ago, and the rain had just turned to sleet. The voice on the other end was her own—or something that knew her voice exactly. She heard the words she'd thought but never spoken. And then the line went dead. But the payphone kept ringing. This episode is about the things we want to say and the things that answer when we don't. It's about hearing…
The Locked Ward at Oakridge Memorial
Late October, 2003. Luna’s cousin Ellie took a night-shift temp job at Oakridge Memorial Hospital, on the third floor — the old psychiatric wing they reopened for a state audit. The job was simple: sit at the nurses’ station from midnight to six, make rounds every hour, press a button if anything moved. But the button didn’t work, and the patients were all in isolation. And the man in Room 312 didn’t have a chart. This is a story about what happens when you’re paid to watch a door that should…
The Night-Soil Man on Dove Creek Road
Summer, 1998. Dove Creek Road was a gravel cut through the woods east of Oakridge, and the night-soil man had been a local story for as long as anyone could remember. Every few years someone would see him—a figure in a wide-brimmed hat and long coat, walking the shoulder at two in the morning, carrying a bucket. I never believed it until I was sixteen, driving my mother's old sedan, the headlights picking up something that didn't move like an animal. This is a story about the things that wait…
The Night-Soil Man on Dove Creek Road
Dove Creek Road, Oakridge, 1998. After the septic tank overflows, a woman hires an old man with a truck full of honey buckets to clean it. He comes after midnight, works without a light, and tells her a story about the things that grow in the dark. By morning, she understands why some doors should never be opened. #DoveCreekRoad #Oakridge #NightSoilMan #SepticTank #HoneyBucket #Midnight #1998 #OldMan #Truck #ScreenedPorch #PorchLight #Shovel #Sludge #Roots #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast…
The Door at the Oakridge Water Treatment Plant
Luna recalls a night in late October 1998 when her uncle Earl, a night watchman at the Oakridge Water Treatment Plant, called her with a story he couldn't shake. A locked door in the chlorine room kept opening by itself, revealing a corridor that shouldn't exist—and something inside it was breathing. Luna drove out to the plant at 2 a.m. and sat with him in the security booth, watching the door swing open and shut like a lung. What she saw through that gap was not a room. This episode is about…
The Girl on the Sawhorse in the Barn on County Road 17
October 2003. A barn half-caved in on County Road 17 outside Oakridge, Virginia. My cousin Elsie told me about it the summer before — her friend Hannah went there on a dare. Saw a girl sitting on a sawhorse in the dark, wearing a yellow dress, humming. Not moving. Not breathing. Hannah ran. But the girl came home with her anyway. This is what Elsie told me over the phone one night when neither of us could sleep. About the yellow dress. About the humming that never stopped. About what happens…
The Sidewinder on Gravel Pit Road
Luna recounts a winter night in 2003 when her cousin Anna called from a gas station payphone outside the town of Pinedale, New York. Anna had been driving home from a party when her car died on Gravel Pit Road, a stretch of dirt locals avoid after dark. She walked two miles to the only light she could see — a shuttered gas station with a payphone that rang before she touched it. Luna picked up the receiver in her own kitchen, two hundred miles away, and heard Anna breathing on the line, not…
The Welcome Mat at the Lavender Room on Birch Street
Luna recounts a night in late October, 2022, when she house-sat for an elderly aunt in the small town of Northwood, Ohio. The house on Birch Street had a lavender room—a guest bedroom no one ever used—and a welcome mat that read 'All Are Welcome Here.' But the welcome was not for her. Over three nights, she learned that some invitations cannot be declined, and some doors open only when you are asleep. A story about hospitality, boundaries, and the shape that stands in the doorway when you…
The Guest Room at the Oakridge Bed & Breakfast
In the spring of 2018, I spent three nights at the Oakridge Bed & Breakfast on Birch Hill Road. The innkeeper, Mrs. Harlow, was a meticulous woman who kept a ledger of every guest who ever stayed in the Rose Room. When I asked why the room was always booked but never occupied, she showed me the last entry: a man named Elias Croft, who checked in on a Tuesday and never checked out. His suitcase was still under the bed, and every night at 3:17 a.m., the floorboards in the hall would creak in a…
The Coat Hook on Oakwood Lane
Luna recounts the story of the Tolland house on Oakwood Lane, a place she visited one November evening in 2017. A friend's mother, Mrs. Tolland, had called her about a coat hook in the mudroom that kept moving. Not the coats on it—the hook itself. Luna arrived to find a tidy house, a warm kitchen, and a woman who spoke calmly about the hook sliding across the wall when she wasn't looking, as if it were tracing something. Over the course of the night, Luna watched it inch left, then right…
The Night-Soil Man on Dove Creek Road
October 1987. A dirt road outside Oakridge. Luna's car dies at dusk, and an old man in a rusted pickup offers her a ride. He smells of earth and rot. He says he's the night-soil man—been hauling waste from the town's septic tanks for forty years. But the deeper they drive into the hollows, the more he talks about the things he's seen in the dark. The things that move underground. The things that follow the pipes home. By the time they reach the house where he's making his last delivery, Luna…
The Thermometer at the Oakridge Pharmacy
August 1987. Oakridge, Vermont. A heat wave that cracked the pavement and made the crickets scream. Luna's grandmother kept a mercury thermometer on the back porch — a relic from the old pharmacy that closed in '72. The thing never lied. When the mercury started climbing past 120, past 140, into a range that couldn't exist in this world, Luna began to understand that some measurements aren't meant to be taken. That heat doesn't just come from the sun. That the old pharmacy didn't close because…
The Unlocked Room at the Bluebird Motel
Luna recounts a night in October 1998 at the Bluebird Motel outside Oakridge, where a maintenance log and a room with a busted lock pulled her into a guest's private horror. The voice on the other side of the door knew her mother's name. The shape in the room was not the guest. A story about motel keys, bad wiring, and the things that wait in places we think are safe. #BluebirdMotel #Oakridge #SleepParalysisHotline #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Motel #MaintenanceLog #Room9 #October1998…
The Stepsister on the Landing of the Old Sturgis House
October 1998. Luna is house-sitting for a family on a quiet street in Oakridge, a favor for a friend of a friend. The house is old, with a narrow staircase and a landing where the stepsister used to sit and wait for her ride to school. Luna doesn't know the girl is dead until the second night, when she wakes to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and the landing light comes on by itself. What follows is a quiet, unnerving encounter with something that doesn't speak, doesn't threaten, but…
The Crawlspace at the Bluebird Trailer Park
Luna recalls a humid summer night in 1998 at the Bluebird Trailer Park outside Oakridge. A neighbor's son, Tommy, swears he heard his mother calling him from under the trailer — but his mother was standing right behind him. What he found in the crawlspace was a thing that wore his mother's voice like a borrowed coat. Luna tells the story from her porch swing, the air thick with mosquitoes and the sound of something moving beneath the gravel. #SleepParalysisHotline #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast…
The Lullaby on Old Wire Road
October 1989. Ruston, Arkansas. A dead end on Old Wire Road where the gravel runs out and the kudzu takes over. Luna's friend Marlene moves into her grandmother's abandoned farmhouse, hoping to escape a bad marriage. But the farmhouse has its own kind of company — a woman's voice singing a lullaby from the back bedroom, a bedroom that's been sealed shut for forty years. Marlene calls Luna, desperate, asking her to come stay one night and listen. What Luna hears there isn't a ghost. It's…
The Night Light on Gifford Avenue
It’s December 1998, just past two in the morning on Gifford Avenue in the quiet edge of Oakridge. Luna’s friend Claire calls from the payphone at the all-night laundromat, her voice low and wrong. She says there’s something in her apartment—not a person, not an animal—something that’s been standing in the corner of her bedroom every night for a week. She can’t move when it’s there. She can’t scream. The worst part is, the night-light in the hallway—the one shaped like a cat—has started changing…
The Pay Phone at the Abandoned Gas Station on Route 9
October 1998, just past midnight on a deserted stretch of Route 9 outside Oakridge. Luna's car died near an old gas station that had been closed for years — weeds growing through the pumps, the sign hanging by one chain. There was a pay phone still standing by the side of the building, the handset swaying slightly in the wind, as if someone had just hung up. She never should have picked it up. The voice on the other end — thin, familiar, asking for a name she hadn't heard in fifteen years — led…
The Attic Door on Cypress Hill Road
In the winter of 1997, Luna's cousin Jenny rented a small house on Cypress Hill Road outside Oakridge. The attic door in the hallway was nailed shut, but every night at 2:33 a.m., something on the other side knocked exactly three times. Jenny called Luna, asking her to stay over. That night, Luna watched the nails push out from the inside, one by one. This is what happened after the last nail fell. A story about what waits behind a door that was never meant to open. No blood, no monster—just…
The Bell Jar in the Root Cellar on Jericho Road
It was late October in the town of Stilwater, the kind of cold that gets into your bones before you even step outside. Luna's aunt, a woman who collected antique medical instruments, had just passed, and Luna was left to clean out the old farmhouse on Jericho Road. In the root cellar, behind a wall of mason jars, she found a bell jar—the kind used to preserve specimens or, in this case, to keep something trapped. The thing inside had waited a long time, and it had a lot to say about why her…
The Side Door on Mulberry Lane
In the winter of 2019, a woman named Margie started calling the Sleep Paralysis Hotline every Tuesday at 3:17 AM. She lived alone on Mulberry Lane in a small Massachusetts town called Wrenfield. The side door of her house, which she never used, would rattle in its frame at exactly 3:17 AM—every single night. She boarded it up. She put a deadbolt on it. She even nailed a two-by-four across the jamb. But the rattling never stopped. And then one Tuesday, she stopped calling. Luna drove out to…
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