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In a time of pestilence and shadow, Luna dons the long cloak of a plague doctor and recounts tales from the margins of history — where the black death was not the only visitor. Each episode of this anthology is a self-contained story drawn from whispered accounts of apothecaries, graveyard shift priests, and those who tended the sick in cities sealed by quarantine. Here, the plague mask is not just protection; it is a doorway. Listen as Luna speaks of physicians who found their patients already dead — and still breathing, of locked wards where the air itself turned to rot and rage, of remedies written in blood on parchment made from human skin. These are not the sanitized accounts of textbooks; these are the confessions of those who walked among the dying and saw something worse follow. The stories are linked by a single thread: the plague doctor's round is never just a medical call — it is a reckoning. Each tale ends before the dawn, leaving you alone in the dark with the rattle of a mask and the memory of what was found in the sickroom's farthest corner. Luna's voice is your only lantern. Do not let it go out. #PlagueDoctorHorror #HistoricalHorror #MedicalHorror #ApothecaryTales #PestilenceFiction #DarkHistory #MedievalHorror #QuarantineStories #PlagueMask #SlowBurnHorror #AnthologyHorror #EpidemicThriller #GothicHorror #BodyHorror #FolkHorror #Horror #HorrorPodcast #FexingoHorror Keep every episode free: buymeacoffee.com/fexingo
Unknown Host hosts Plague Doctor's Round — Fexingo Horror.
December 1996. A minor car accident on an icy road outside Verona, Ohio. Luna waits in the empty clinic's waiting room while the doctor examines her father. The clock on the wall ticks too slowly. A woman in a grey coat
In the autumn of 2003, on a back road outside Opelika, Alabama, there was a storefront that sold porcelain dolls. Not the kind you find at antique malls — these were custom, handmade, each one a perfect likeness of someo
A quiet, self-contained encounter from Luna's own past: the autumn she spent in a dying Massachusetts mill town, cataloguing the archives of a church that was about to be demolished. Inside the basement she found a singl
A woman on a solo road trip stops for gas at a dusty station outside Wisteria, Texas, where the attendant warns her not to listen to the wind. She presses on, but the radio begins to play a child's nursery rhyme about a
In the summer of 1997, the only 24-hour pharmacy in New Carthage was a fluorescent-lit box on the edge of town. Luna's cousin worked the graveyard shift there, and one night in July he called her with a story he couldn't
October 1999. Three weeks before Halloween, the night stock crew at the Piggly Wiggly in Wolf Creek, Tennessee, started hearing things from the walk-in freezer. Not the compressor. Not the pipes. A sound like fingernails
In the winter of 1998, Luna's great-aunt Maeve called her to the old Croft house in Shady Grove, Tennessee. Maeve had been hearing something in the attic—a rhythmic creak, like a rocking chair or a cradle, that started e
Summer of 1997, Haskell County, Oklahoma. The fair came to town every August—the same Ferris wheel, the same funnel cake, the same dusty midway. But that year, a new attraction appeared at the edge of the livestock barn:
In the summer of 2018, Luna spent three nights at a crumbling Victorian boarding house in Pendleton, Ohio, cataloguing the belongings of a deceased antique dealer. The house was quiet, dust-choked, and smelled of dried l
October 1987, just outside of Bakersfield, Missouri. Luna's aunt Clara called her to an old Victorian farmhouse she'd inherited from a distant cousin — a woman named Esther Treadwell who had lived alone for forty years a
October 1989, just outside of Ashland, Kentucky. Luna's great-aunt Edie called her at 3 AM with a single sentence: 'They're digging up the poor ground again.' By the time Luna reached the old county poor farm cemetery—Po
In the autumn of 2019, near the forgotten town of Marrow, Georgia, a stretch of Draper Road wound through pine forest so dense it swallowed headlights by four in the afternoon. Luna heard about a woman who lived alone in
October of 1987. Luna's father took her to a bone-setter on the outskirts of a dying Texas town, a man who worked out of a tin-roofed shed behind his house. He had an old leather chair and a way of pressing his thumbs in
November 1988. A locked psychiatric ward in a small-town Catholic hospital. Luna's aunt worked the night shift there, and after she died, Luna found a taped confession in a shoebox under the bed. This is what the tape sa
November 1998. A cold fog settled over the last bus stop on Skinners Lane in Barlow County. Luna was waiting for the 11:07 that never came. Instead, an old man in a long coat sat down beside her, humming a tune she almos
It was the summer of 2002, and I was stranded overnight at the Greyhound station in Dunmore County, Virginia—a place that looked like it had been forgotten by the schedule itself. The only other person was a woman in a g
When a young man disappears from a locked room at a historic inn in Millbrook, Vermont, his mother asks Luna to investigate. The innkeeper's stories of a guest who never checked out—and the persistent smell of woodsmoke
December 1987. A narrow valley in the Ozarks where the church bells haven't rung in thirty years. Luna's grandmother told her about Cold Spring Hollow as a child—a place where the bells toll on their own, always at the w
Summer 1979. A slow evening at the Telford Basin pump station, where I worked the night shift. The well had been dry for years — until it started singing. Not a mechanical sound. Not water. A voice, rising from six hundr
December 23rd, 1987. A stalled pickup on a rural road outside Harmony Falls. The driver was hauling a load of unsold Christmas trees from the lot at St. Mark's. When the engine died, the trees didn't. Luna recounts a nig
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