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Inside a lighthouse on a jagged coast, Luna takes up the keeper's logbook each night. The stories she writes are not her own — they are the confessions, warnings, and last words of those who have come before her. Each entry is a self-contained tale: a captain who hears his drowned crew singing in the fog, a lighthouse keeper whose isolation gives birth to a second self, a shipwreck survivor who discovers the island is not what it seems. The Fresnel lens casts rotating beams across the pages, illuminating horrors that prefer the dark. Here, the sea keeps its secrets, and the lighthouse is a archive of human despair. Luna narrates in a hushed, intimate voice, as if reading by candlelight, each story a slow-burn descent into dread. For listeners who crave atmospheric horror, maritime folklore, and the loneliness of the watch.
Unknown Host hosts Lighthouse Logs — Fexingo Horror.
It was late October, just before the clocks fell back, when I found myself on the shoulder of a county highway in eastern Oregon, a few miles south of a town called Fossil. My car had overheated on the long stretch betwe
It's 2:47 AM at the Shell station off Route 9, just outside Blackwood, Ohio. The snow is coming down sideways, the diesel pumps are frozen, and the only other soul in sight is a woman in a green coat who keeps asking for
It's December 1998, two days before Christmas, and I'm driving through the Oklahoma panhandle when the interstate goes dark. No exit lights, no headlights, nothing. I pull off at a truck stop that shouldn't be there—a pl
A woman driving through the Oklahoma panhandle in late October stops at a faded drive-in movie screen glowing in the middle of nowhere. The projector runs an old black-and-white film she's never seen, but the figures on
Luna pulls off Highway 95 near a dried-up town called Goodsprings at 3 a.m. The Desert Star Motel has no cars in the lot, no clerk at the desk, but a key waiting on the counter with her name on it. Room 11's light is alr
Luna recalls a summer in the late 90s when she worked the graveyard shift at Sparkle Wash, a rundown laundromat on the edge of a dying mill town in upstate New York. One humid August night, a woman in a damp coat brought
February 2023. A cold rain on Interstate 10 outside Deming, New Mexico. Luna's car broke down at the base of the old Overland Park overpass — a concrete span known locally for the white crosses bolted to the railing. Thi
October 1998. The week I house-sat for my aunt in Iron Forge, Pennsylvania. A small town folded into the Allegheny foothills where every house has a root cellar older than the town itself. I was twenty-two and grateful f
In the autumn of 1978, a traveling clock repairman named Elias Coombs vanished from his motel room in Balsam, Ohio. All that remained was a single pocket watch — its radium-painted dial glowing green in the dark, its sec
October 2008. A dry autumn in the Missouri River hills. Luna's cousin Carly calls her to say she's been seeing something in the water tower outside Gilead, Missouri—a reflection that doesn't match the world. Luna drives
In the autumn of 1987, Luna's cousin Rose disappeared from the Harvest Moon Carnival in Elkhart, Indiana. Found weeks later wandering a county road with no memory of the night she vanished—except for one image burned int
Luna recalls a stretch of old highway in eastern Kentucky where the tollbooth at mile marker 47 stayed lit and staffed long after the turnpike was decommissioned. It was October 2019, just past midnight, when she took th
In June of 1997, Luna spent a week at the Sulfur Springs Hotel in western Virginia — a grand old resort built over a mineral spring, long past its prime. The place had a single permanent resident: an elderly woman named
In the winter of 1987, Luna drove out to the old Cape Hatteras light to deliver a logbook to the keeper. The keeper wasn't there. The light was on, the coffee pot was warm, and the last entry in the log was dated two yea
February 1967, the dead of winter on Lake Champlain. Luna's grandfather was the last keeper of the Isle La Motte ferry, a man who knew every current and every rock. But on the night of the worst freeze in forty years, he
In the autumn of 2019, I drove a rental car through the Nebraska Sandhills at two in the morning, chasing a story I'd heard from an old railroad man in a bar in North Platte. He told me about a whistle that blows at Red
Luna recalls a November night in 2003 when she waited for the 11:13 pm train at the Meriwether Depot, a small station on a line that had been all but abandoned. The platform was empty, the ticket booth dark, and the only
A night in early October, 2007. I was driving route 9 through western Massachusetts when the rain turned to sleet and the signs just... stopped. No town line, no gas station, no lights. Until I saw the vacancy sign of th
A truck stop outside Frostbite, Nebraska. A waitress named Rose. A regular customer who came in every Friday at 3 a.m., paid with wrinkled bills, and never said a word. Then one night in November 2019, he left a note on
November 1989. A back road near Templeton, Ohio. Luna's car dies outside a boarded-up farmhouse with a yard full of crows. The birds don't move. They don't blink. And the house—she swears it breathes. This is a story abo
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