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Every night, Luna sits at the unlit ON AIR desk of a tiny radio station, a sealed letter in hand. The letters arrive from a town that exists only on the other side of the page — Sycamore Ridge, a place that appears in no census, on no map, but whose residents write to the Night Desk as though it were their only tether to the world beyond. Luna reads their stories aloud into a dead microphone, for no one but herself — or so she believes. Letters to the Night Desk is an anthology of epistolary horror: each episode a self-contained missive from someone in Sycamore Ridge, recounting the unnatural events that define their days. A woman whose garden grows teeth. A man who receives phone calls from his own reflection. A child whose shadow keeps moving after the light goes out. The stories are bound by the station itself — a liminal space where the letters arrive without postmarks, and where Luna's voice becomes the last known transmission from a frequency that shouldn't exist. Each letter is a confession, a warning, or a plea. Some are stained with what might be rust. The unifying thread is not a plot but a place — a town that shifts between the lines. Settle in. The ON AIR sign never lights. But Luna is listening.
Unknown Host hosts Letters to the Night Desk — Fexingo Horror.
October 1998. On a dead-end gravel road outside of Ellsworth, Maine, Luna finds a Victorian dollhouse in the attic of the abandoned Terwilliger Estate. Inside, the rooms are not to scale. The wallpaper in the master bedr
In the late summer of 1997, Luna spent a week house-sitting at her uncle's property on Ponderosa Lane, a dead-end road outside the small town of Crestwood, Tennessee. The house was surrounded by woods and a dried-up cree
October 1987. A cold night at the old Ridgeway telephone exchange, where Luna once filled in on the night shift. The switchboard was a relic—manual plugs and cords, long since bypassed by the automated system. But the ca
October 1989. A woman alone in a 24-hour laundromat on Beech Street in Larkspur, Illinois, at 2 AM. She is sorting her dead mother's clothes when the payphone on the back wall rings. It keeps ringing. No one is on the ot
It was the summer of '97, just before the town of Ashburn, Missouri voted to demolish the old Whittaker place. I went inside one last time with a reporter from the county paper, a woman named Deb who was writing a piece
It's autumn 1998 in Oakwood, a small town that never made it onto any map. Sal's Diner is a relic even then—vinyl stools, a jukebox that only plays the same six records, a waitress who's worn the same name tag for thirty
October 1989, a small town in Ohio. A woman named Eleanor begins receiving nightly phone calls from a man who claims to be sitting on her porch. The police find no one. The calls keep coming, always the same voice, alway
October 1994, a farmhouse outside Mercer, Pennsylvania. Luna's friend Cora inherits a house from a grandmother she barely knew—a woman who stopped speaking thirty years ago and spent her final months nailing every room's
In the winter of 1998, a woman named Evelyn Croft drove to Saint Agatha's Church on Old Mill Road every night for a week, always arriving at 2:03 AM. The church had been closed for years, its bell tower dry and silent. B
Luna checks into room 8 at the Sanderson Motel on Route 22 outside Bicknell, Indiana, a rainy October night in 2018. The room is still made up from the last guest, but there's no record of anyone checking in. The TV flic
Luna reads a letter from a woman named Edie who walked the footbridge over Hawthorne Falls every Tuesday evening for thirty years. One night, she noticed the stairs leading down to the river had changed—the railing worn
In the autumn of 2017, Luna's night shift at a low-power radio station in Mercer, Ohio, was interrupted by a letter from a shopkeeper named Evelyn Croft. Evelyn ran a bridal and formalwear shop on Main Street—Dorcas's Dr
It's the summer of '97 in Elkhart, Kansas, and Luna stops at the Blue Moon Diner off old Highway 83. The place is empty but for a waitress named Della who hasn't had a customer in hours. She shows Luna a photograph taped
A late-night detour along an abandoned logging road leads to a covered bridge that wasn't on any map. The wood is newer than it should be, the nails hand-forged, and the darkness beneath it breathes. A man in old-fashion
November 1997, Parchman, Mississippi. Luna receives a letter from a retired librarian named Elise, recounting the night a book on the library's restricted shelf began rewriting itself. The missing page from a 1954 local
May 1997, Barlow House, out past the gravel pits on Old Mill Road. It was a foreclosure, boarded up for eighteen years, but the realtor said someone had been leaving flowers at the edge of the well in the backyard. Luna
In the autumn of 1997, Luna took a temp job at the sleep clinic in Dunmore, a town of faded brick and empty storefronts. Her shift began at midnight, the clinic silent except for the hum of machines and the soft breathin
In the summer of 2003, Luna worked the night shift at a Gulf station on Route 9, outside a town called Darden. A woman in a blue dress would stop by every Thursday just past midnight, buy a pack of gum, and leave without
A long-distance trucker pulls into an all-night Texaco off Route 17 in western Tennessee, a place he's stopped a hundred times. But tonight the payphone by the air pump is ringing when he steps out of the cab. He answers
In the fall of 1998, a woman named Cora Thorne moved into a house on Mimosa Street in the small town of Milford, Kentucky. The house had a wrought-iron gate in the backyard that led nowhere—just a concrete slab on the ot
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Letters to the Night Desk — Fexingo Horror is hosted by Unknown Host. The show is categorised under Fiction and has published 0 episodes.
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