Episodes
The Second Light at Port Blossom Lighthouse
In the thin November fog off the coast of Maine, Luna rows to the abandoned Port Blossom lighthouse—shuttered since 1987. Inside, she finds the logbook of the last keeper, Elias Voss. His early entries catalogue routine maintenance and storm damage. Then, on a moonless night, he begins to note a second beam of light out on the water, opposite the lighthouse tower. A light with no source, no charted buoy, no explanation. As his entries grow shorter and more frantic, the light seems to answer the…
The Weeping at Willow Shoal on the Ebbing Tide
In the fog-shrouded autumn of Morrow's Point, Luna meets a fisherman named Elias who warns her of a weeping sound that rises from Willow Shoal when the tide goes out. Against his advice, she follows the sound to a half-submerged tree and uncovers something that should have stayed buried. A story about grief, warning, and the weight of water. No neat closure, just the lingering memory of a face in bark and the echo of a cry. #TenFathoms #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Anthology #MorrowsPoint…
The Knocking at Promise Island
Late autumn, three in the morning, fog so thick you could taste it. Luna found herself anchored off Promise Island, waiting for the tide to turn, when a sound began beneath the hull. Not the groan of wood or the slap of water—something rhythmic, deliberate. A dull clink, like metal on metal, coming from deep below. What she hauled up was a tarnished brass diving helmet, old as the century before, tangled in her anchor line. But the helmet was not empty. The fog whispered her name, and she knew…
The Light at Runnel's Wharf
On a fog-shrouded October night at Runnel's Wharf in Port Hinton, Luna meets an old man named Silas who has kept a vigil for decades. Every year on the same date, a strange light appears on the bay — the only remnant of his father's boat, lost in 1967. The light grows closer each year, and Silas believes it's a summons. But when Luna sees it for herself, she realizes the light is not just watching the dock — it's watching him. A story of loss, obsession, and the thin veil between the living and…
The Lantern at Broken Point
Late November, an hour before dawn. Luna is alone on her boat in the fog off the coast of a small town called Broken Point. She spots a derelict fishing boat with a single kerosene lantern burning. Aboard, she finds a logbook that tells the story of a man who began following a pale light beneath the water—a light that moved. The entries grow shorter, more frantic, until the last one stops mid-sentence. Luna reads it, and then the lantern goes out. She flees, but the light rises from the water…
The Signal at Morgan's Landing Lighthouse
Before dawn, in a fog so thick it felt like being underwater, Luna hears a woman's voice on a dead radio channel, repeating coordinates to a lighthouse that was supposed to have been demolished decades ago. Driven by a pull she can't explain, she follows the signal into the channel—and finds something that shouldn't be there. A light in the fog. A tower made of barnacles and bone. And a keeper who has been waiting a very long time for someone to answer. But an answer isn't the same as a rescue.…
The Delivery at Grimble's Dock on the Backwater Tide
August 1998. Luna is hired to deliver a single crate to a dock that doesn't appear on any chart—Grimble's Dock, up a dead-end channel off the Pungo River. The man who hired her gives no explanation, only an address and a warning: don't open it, don't set foot on the dock. She goes at dusk on a slack tide, the water like oil. The dock is there. A figure is waiting. But the crate is lighter than it should be, and the address is wrong in a way she doesn't understand until the tide turns. A story…
The Sound at Hatteras Weir on the Slack Tide
In the summer of 2009, Luna's cousin Garrick took a night job monitoring a fish weir off the Outer Banks. The pay was good, the work was simple — just sit in a shack on stilts and log the catch every hour. But the weir wasn't catching what was supposed to be there. The water was too still. The gulls wouldn't land. And every night, just before the tide turned, a sound came up through the pilings — not a fish, not a bird, not anything with lungs. Garrick kept a tape recorder running. He sent Luna…
The Chain at Deadman's Bend on the Ebbing Tide
Luna recalls a night two summers ago on the Choptank River, when old man Tolland at the Wicomico bait shack told her about the chain at Deadman's Bend. Not the iron one bolted to the piling — the other one. The one that rises from the mud only on the ebbing tide, when the water clears enough to see the links, each one the size of a man's fist, and the thing they're tied to. She went to see it for herself, on a moonless August night with the tide running out, and she learned why the fishermen…
The Bell at Wicker's Spit on the Flood Tide
Luna recalls a night in late October 2004 when she took her skiff out past Wicker's Spit on the flood tide, hauling a favor for an old fisherman named Ezra. The tide was running high and the fog lay thick as cotton wool. Ezra had told her to listen for a bell — a brass bell mounted on a buoy that no longer existed. She heard it anyway, and followed it toward a shape in the water that wasn't a buoy. By the time the fog thinned, the bell had stopped and she was alone again, but the oilskin coat…
The Buoy at Driftwood Channel on the Flood Tide
In the summer of 2019, a lobsterman named Ezra Phelps caught something in his traps off Driftwood Channel, just north of Owl's Head, Maine. It wasn't a lobster. It wasn't a fish. It was a buoy — old, crusted with barnacles, painted a faded orange that might have been red once. He hauled it aboard because the line felt heavy, and when he pulled it up, the chain at the end was wrapped around something he couldn't explain. He told me about it three days later, sitting on the dock at dawn, his…
The Wake at Eelgrass Bend
A found diary from an abandoned house on a frozen lake. The entries begin with a woman's routine ice-fishing trips through a hole her husband cut the winter before he died. They progress into something else — a tally of shapes moving beneath the ice, a hunger that mirrors her own, a countdown to the spring thaw. By the final entry, the ice has grown too thin to stand on, and the shapes have started answering back. Luna reads from the diary of a woman in Garrison, Minnesota, during the winter of…
The Shadow at Stillwater Bridge
Luna returns to the town of Stillwater, where a quiet bridge over a slow-moving river holds a story that has waited twenty years to be told. It's the autumn of 2003, and a boy named Eli Thorne goes missing on his way home from school. The bridge is the only way across, and the water below is shallow enough to see the bottom. But what the town finds in the weeks that follow is not a body. It's a whisper, carried on the current, that never stops. Luna pieces together the fragments from those who…
The Hinge at Pelican Narrows
June 2021. A remote lock on the Intracoastal Waterway in the low country of South Carolina. Luna's friend, a lock tender named Elias, calls her after midnight to tell her about the night he stopped opening the gate. About the boat that came through at 3:17 AM with its running lights off. About the thing that stood on the bow and pointed at the water. And about the name he saw carved into the steel wall of the lock chamber the next morning. A name he recognized. A name that was his own. This is…
The Chain at Deadman's Bend
In the winter of 2019, on a frozen stretch of the Pocomoke River near the old railroad bridge at Deadman's Bend, a waterman named Ellis Tull found something caught in his trotline. Not a fish, not a log. A length of anchor chain, barnacle-crusted, leading down into the silt. He pulled. The chain kept coming, coil after coil, until the line went taut and the boat began to list. What he heard next—a low singing, like a woman's voice underwater—stayed with him. He told me about it one night at the…
The Knot at Wicker's Spit
Luna remembers a fogbound October night off Wicker's Spit, a low sandbar where the tide pools hold things that shouldn't be there. She was nineteen, running a skiff for an old fisherman named Harlan Croft. An hour before dawn, the boat's engine coughed dead and they found a line — a single rope coiled around the propeller — that wasn't tied to anything. Harlan said it was a mooring knot, but there was no mooring. The rope led to a woman standing calf-deep in the water, facing away, her dress…
The Contract at Gull Island Wharf
In the autumn of 1998, Luna's father took a last-minute charter to Gull Island, a narrow spit of sand and scrub off the coast of Maine. The passenger was a woman in a grey coat who paid in cash, who carried nothing but a leather satchel. She asked to be left alone on the island until dawn. Luna's father agreed, against every instinct, and when he came back to retrieve her, the skiff was still there but the satchel was gone, and there was something different about the way the tide was pulling.…
The Gunnel at Cold Harbor Reach on the Ebbing Tide
Luna recalls a November night at an abandoned oyster cannery on Maryland's Eastern Shore. She was helping a retired waterman named Eli Carville salvage a skiff that had drifted into the marsh. But the skiff wasn't empty. Inside was a woman's body, dressed in a wedding gown, with her hands bound by tarnished fishing leader. The local sheriff called it a suicide. Eli knew better. He told Luna about the Reach's history — a place where, during the last century, a bride-to-be vanished on her wedding…
The Slip at Waycross Landing
Luna finds a corroded brass lamp tangled in her net off Waycross Landing, on the Georgia side of the Okefenokee. The lamp is still warm, and its lens glows with a light that isn't fire. She brings it aboard, and over the next hour the fog around her boat begins to move in ways the tide cannot explain — circling, tightening, pressing in until she can hear breathing on the other side of the hull. The story of the lamp belongs to a man named Elias, who tended a light at a river crossing that…
The Lock at Cedar Bend on the Slack Tide
October 2021, just past midnight. Luna pulls her skiff up to an old lock on the Trent River near New Bern, North Carolina. The lock keeper is a woman named Elara who has been alone out here for seven years. She shows Luna the ledger where she records every vessel that passes through. But there is a second ledger. Names that go in but never come out. That night, Luna watches a jon boat drift toward the lock with no one at the tiller. The motor is still running. The lock keeper says the boat has…
The Thrum at Drowned Man's Reach
Luna recounts a late-October night on the Rogue River, when the fish stopped biting at Drowned Man's Reach and the water began to hum. Old Man Whittaker, who had been fishing those banks for fifty years, said he'd heard it once before—back in '78, the year the river took three men in one spring. She stayed on the bank long after he left, listening to the sound that wasn't quite a voice, watching the surface of the water vibrate like a drum skin. The story of what she saw when the moon broke…
The Light at Mossy Point Landing
A late-winter night in 1997 on a backwater curve of the Peace River. Luna's cousin Harlan runs a bait shack at Mossy Point Landing, a place the river folk avoid after dark. When a woman in a green coat walks out onto the landing and stares at the water for three hours without blinking, Harlan calls Luna. She arrives to find the woman gone, but something else shuffles under the dock — something that does not breathe. A quiet, aching episode about attention, loneliness, and the shape of things…
The Haul at Greaseboat Bay
On a bone-dry November night in 2017, Luna trails an old fisherman named Cobb to a backwater cove in the Okefenokee — a place he calls Greaseboat Bay. The air smells of diesel and rotting lilies, and the water is so still it looks like a black mirror. Cobb has been netting ghost catfish for forty years, but lately his nets bring up something else: old things, rusted things, drowned things that shouldn't be there. He swears the bay is growing shallower, that the bottom is rising. Luna helps him…
The Catch at Gray Heron Inlet
Luna spent a summer at a fly-fishing camp on Gray Heron Inlet in coastal Maine, guiding tourists on the flats. One morning in late August, before the fog burned off, she took out a quiet guest named Hollis — a man in his forties who barely spoke and never cast a line. He said he was there to find something his grandfather had lost sixty years ago, something caught on a snag at low tide. As the tide dropped and the inlet narrowed to a channel, Luna saw what he was reaching for: not a fish, not a…
The Raft at Hempstead Bar
September 1998. Luna drives through a coastal fog to meet a man named Elroy at a bar called The Raft, perched on pilings above Hempstead Bar — a sandbar that shifts with every tide. Elroy claims he's been seeing the same woman walk out of the surf at dusk, night after night, for two weeks. She stands at the edge of the water, dripping, and stares at him until the fog swallows her. But Elroy is not afraid of her. What scares him is that she is not alone — that she is waiting for something else…
The Anchor at Wicker's Spit
In the autumn of 1998, on a fog-thick night at Wicker's Spit, a forgotten cove off the Georgia coast, a fisherman named Elias found an anchor lodged in the hull of his skiff. It was not his anchor. It was old, wrought-iron, encrusted with barnacles that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking. He tried to cut it loose, but the chain led down into the black water, taut and humming. That night, the fog came down like a lid, and something began pulling. Told in Luna's hushed, exhausted voice, this…
The Light at Sister Shoals on the Ebbing Tide
In the summer of 1987, Luna's trawler dredged up a brass lantern from the shallows off Sister Shoals—an old harbor light engraved with a name she didn't recognize. The same night, a fog rolled in thick as wool, and from the wheelhouse she heard a woman's voice calling out coordinates no longer on any chart. The lantern's glass was warm to the touch, though the sea had been thirty feet deep. Luna tells the story of a night spent following a signal that shouldn't exist, guided by a light that…
The Net at Sister Shoals on the Slack Tide
December 1998, a still night on the Pamlico Sound. Luna's uncle Frank, a crabber out of Belhaven, hauls his pots alone on the slack tide — the eerie pause between ebb and flood when the water barely breathes. Near the outermost buoy, where the sound meets the open Atlantic, his net snags on something heavy. Not a log. Not a buoy line cut loose. Up it comes — a tangle of black mesh, old lead weights, a single rubber boot with a foot still inside, bone. He cuts it free and heads in. But the next…
The Oar at Baxter's Landing
Luna pulls into a fog-choked marina on the Waccamaw River one November evening and finds an old man waiting on the dock with an oar. He claims he's been rowing for forty years, ferrying passengers to an island that isn't on any chart. The fare is a secret, not money. But when his boat reaches the shore, Luna realizes no passengers ever come back. A story about ferrymen, forgotten rivers, and the weight of unfinished crossings. #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #TenFathoms #Luna #Anthology #Ferryman…
The Mooring at Sweetwater Point
October 2023. Luna takes her boat to the edge of a shallow, tea-colored lake in the Florida Panhandle, following a story about a missing fisherman. At Sweetwater Point, the water is never deeper than twelve feet, but the bottom is a soft muck that swallows anything that sinks. She meets an old woman who ties a line to a cypress knee and says she's been waiting for someone to ask. What she pulls up is not a fish. It's not a log. It's a thing that has been down there long enough for the catfish…
The Bell at Mermaid's Purse on the Ebbing Tide
Luna remembers a night she spent anchored in Mermaid's Purse, a narrow channel off the coast of Matunuck, Rhode Island, in late October of 2018. She was alone, waiting for the tide to turn, when she heard a bell ringing from the water. Not a buoy bell—something smaller, closer, with a dull, wet clapper. She followed the sound in her skiff, and found a woman standing waist-deep in the frigid black water, holding a handbell, ringing it in slow, steady strokes. The woman wouldn't speak, wouldn't…
The Cradle at Drowned Creek
Luna recalls a night in the fall of 2018 when she anchored off Drowned Creek, a narrow channel near Long Pine, Georgia, to wait out a storm. The rain stopped, the fog rolled in, and she heard a sound she still can't place: the slow, rhythmic creak of a rocking cradle coming from a house that wasn't supposed to be there. She tells the story of what she saw through the window—a woman in a nightgown, a cradle with no floor, and something that reached up from the water. There is no ghost story…
The Light at Shadyside Dock
In the summer of 1998, Luna's uncle ran the marina at Shadyside Dock on Lake Champlain. One August night, she stayed late to help him retie a drifting pontoon. That's when the light appeared under the water — a pale, steady glow moving in a straight line against the current. Uncle Roy said it was just a mudpuppy with a flashlight. But he wouldn't take the boat out after dark for the rest of the season. Luna remembers the way the light seemed to pause under the hull, and the sound of something…
The Buoy at Gannet's Ledge
December 2023. The night after a nor'easter, Luna motors out past Gannet's Ledge to check on a bell buoy that's been silent for three days. She finds the buoy still floating, its clapper gone, and a man sitting on the chain plate in a yellow raincoat that belongs to a fisherman who went missing ten years ago. He doesn't speak. He doesn't shiver. He just points east, toward the open ocean, where the fog is thickest and the water goes black. This episode is a quiet, salt-stained encounter with…
The Keel at Blackwater Landing
Luna recounts a night in early November when she helped an old boatwright named Elias haul a skiff from the mud at Blackwater Landing. The boat had been sunk for thirty years—a wooden sloop called the Adeline that went down in a squall with its owner still aboard. Elias found the hull perfectly preserved in the silt, the varnish still glossy, a lantern still burning in the forward berth. Luna describes the pull of the winch, the groan of the timber, and what they saw when the keel cleared the…
The Ferryman at Parker's Landing
In the summer of 2017, Luna was hired to document the last night of the Parker's Landing ferry—a century-old chain-drawn scow that crossed the Nottoway River in coastal Virginia. The ferryman, a quiet man named Eli Wainwright, had been running it alone for forty years. As the midnight crossing approached, Luna noticed the ferry never touched the opposite bank. It stopped dead in the channel, the chain humming a low note she could feel in her chest. What Eli told her, standing at the bow in the…
The Trawl at Sister Shoals
In the summer of 2008, a lobsterman named August Treadwell hauled something out of the water thirty miles off Owl’s Head, Maine. It wasn’t a fish. It wasn’t a trap. It was a leather satchel, sealed with tar, and inside was a journal written in a language no one could read. August kept it in his wheelhouse for three weeks. By the time the Coast Guard found his boat drifting off Sister Shoals, he was gone. The boat was intact. The coffee was still warm. The journal was open to the last page. This…
The Light at Gum Swamp Landing
October 1987. Luna's uncle Mo takes her night-fishing on the Pamlico River, anchoring near the rotted remains of Gum Swamp Landing — a place the old-timers say was never fully abandoned. He tells her about the lantern you sometimes see floating above the water, how it moves against the current, how the men who followed it were never found. That night, Luna sees it for herself. A single point of yellow light, drifting through the fog. And she learns what happens when the light decides to follow…
The Coffin at Eelgrass Creek
September 2023, just outside a town called Oysterback on the Virginia tidewater. A man named Caleb Tolliver finds a sealed pine box wedged in the reeds along Eelgrass Creek at low tide. Inside is not a body but a handwritten logbook dated 1957, the entries growing shorter and stranger over a two-week period. Luna pieces together what happened to the man who built the coffin—a waterman named Ezra Pell who believed something was pulling him down by the roots. This episode is about the weight of…
The Whistle at Whiskey Point
A foggy November night at Whiskey Point, a narrow spit of land jutting into Pamlico Sound. Luna recalls the old story of the whistle — a brass train whistle that washes ashore after every big storm, always found by someone who needs to hear it. She tells of a woman named Cora who found it last autumn, and the quiet, terrible thing it did to her. No ghosts, no monsters — just a sound that knows where you live. A slow, intimate story about the things we carry and the shapes we make of grief.…
The Draw of the Moon at Pelican Slough
July 1987. Luna takes a charter job out of Pelican Slough, Louisiana, for a woman named Margaret who claims she needs to scatter her husband's ashes at a specific bend in the bayou. But Margaret knows the water too well — knows the current, knows the cypress stumps, knows exactly where the boat should stop. And she doesn't say a word about her husband the whole ride out. The story of what Luna saw that morning, what the water did to the light, and the sound that came up from the silt when the…
The Bottom at Deadman's Reach
June 1987, just outside the town of Port Blakely, Washington. Luna remembers the summer her uncle's fishing boat started hauling up things that weren't fish. Not garbage, not debris—things that seemed deliberate. Things that had been down there a long time, but only started coming up that one season. She tells the story of what they found tangled in the nets, what the old-timers at the dock refused to name, and what finally drove her uncle to sell the boat and never set foot on the water again.…
The Bell at Stillwater Reach
October 1987. A small fishing town on the Maine coast, where the fog doesn't lift for days. Luna hears about a bell buoy that rings at odd hours, even when the water is flat calm. The local fishermen avoid it. A man named Harlan tells her about the night he rowed out to see what was pulling the chain. She meets him at the dock at dusk, his hands shaking around a cup of coffee. He says the bell doesn't ring for boats. It rings for something else. What he saw that night is still out there…
The Wreck of the Marie Louise at Tumbledown Bay
In the winter of 1987, the fishing village of Tumbledown Bay, Maine, was haunted by a bell that rang from a ship that had been underwater for fifty years. Luna recounts the story of Old Man Pritchard, who claimed the bell only tolled when someone was about to drown. One night, he took a rowboat out into a storm to find the source—and what he found under the waves changed how the town understood the bell's song. A quiet, salt-stained ghost story about memory, guilt, and the things that pull us…
The Bell That Rang at Half-Moon Inlet
In the winter of 1999, the town of Port Suffering, Maine, had a problem no one wanted to talk about. The fog bell at Half-Moon Inlet had been ringing every night since the dredge boat the Margaret Rose went down in November. Old Mrs. Carmody said it was the souls of the drowned trying to find their way home. The Coast Guard said it was a loose chain. But when Luna's uncle, a retired lobsterman, took her out to the inlet on a dead-cold December night, they found something else entirely. The bell…
The Bell at Mermaid's Purse
October 2023, on the coast of Massachusetts. Luna hears about a salvage diver who found a bell on a wreck no one else would touch — the Mermaid's Purse, a charter boat that went down with six people in 1998. The diver brought the bell up, cleaned it, and hung it in his workshop. Then the calls started coming at night. Not a phone ringing — the bell ringing, inside its glass case, without being touched. And each time it rang, someone who had been on that boat called him, alive or dead. A quiet…
The Bell at Stillwater Reach
A lone fisherman recounts a night on Stillwater Reach where the fog carried a bell that didn't belong. What he found in the shallows beneath an abandoned lighthouse was not a shipwreck—but something that had been waiting for someone to listen. #TenFathoms #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Lighthouse #Fog #Bell #StillwaterReach #Fisherman #Dawn #Silence #Mist #Water #Solitude #Echo #Lost #Listen #Abandoned #Night Keep every episode free: buymeacoffee.com/fexingo
The Catch at Echo Cove
In October of '95, Luna's uncle took her to Echo Cove, a narrow inlet off the coast of Maine where the fishing had always been good. But that night, the water was too still, the fog too thick, and the fish they hauled up weren't fish at all. Something in the cove was returning what was thrown in—every lure, every hook, every thing lost to the deep. And when they pulled the anchor, something pulled back. A story about debts owed to the dark, and the one catch you never want to make.…
The Thing Under the Pontoon at Redbank Marina
I spent a summer working the night shift at Redbank Marina, on the Stillwater River where it bends past the old paper mill. Nothing ever happened there—just fuel pumps, rental skiffs, the occasional drunk angler. But that July, a woman in a yellow raincoat kept appearing at the end of Pontoon G. She never said a word. She just pointed down. I thought she was a ghost, or a prank. I was wrong. What I saw under that pontoon—what I heard when I finally looked—changed how I feel about still water.…
The Tide Pools Below Black Rock Point
On a still night in early November, Luna follows a stranger to the tide pools below Black Rock Point, a stretch of Maine coast locals avoid after dark. The man claims his daughter drowned there twenty years ago, but he never found her body. Together they walk the wet rocks by flashlight, searching for something he calls 'the pockets' — underwater caves that breathe. What he finds is not a body. And what follows her home afterward is not a ghost. A quiet, salt-stained story about grief…
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