検索キーワード： 戯曲・演劇

A hallway of identical doors, each one a promise of something left behind. In 'Rooms We Don't Open,' Luna guides you through the threshold of a single story per episode — a self-contained confession from a house that remembers, an apartment that listens, a hotel corridor that narrows as you walk. These are tales of spaces that hold secrets: the locked basement where the last tenant left something breathing, the nursery that hums in an empty house, the study whose books rearrange themselves at night. Luna's voice is the only constant, a low ember in the dark, as she unfolds each room's ...

The Night Librarian is a serialized horror podcast that follows Luna, a solitary archivist in a vast, candlelit library where every book is a door to another world — and every door has a lock. By night, she pushes a wooden trolley through aisles of stained-glass moonlight, cataloging tomes that whisper, bleed, and sometimes breathe. But a pattern emerges: certain books share a recurring symbol — a brass key stamped with an unfamiliar sigil — and each one describes a different town that has vanished from every map. As Luna traces the threads between these lost places, she uncovers a ...

On the Mojave highway, Luna moves through static. Each episode of this anthology is a fragment of desert delirium—a hitchhiker who knows your name, a radio station that only plays at midnight, a motel room where the walls breathe. Here, the heat waves are lies, and the Joshua trees are watchers. No two stories share a road, but all are bound by the same law: in the American desert, the dead don't stay buried. Luna's voice is a quiet companion as you drift through these parched, dreamlike tales where loneliness becomes a trap, and the horizon is a mouth. Each story is a self-contained descent...

In the folds of an Appalachian holler, where mist clings to the ridgelines and the dark spreads like a slow flood, Luna sits on a cabin porch and listens. These are the stories told by the mountain itself — whispered through leaves, carried on night winds, spoken in the creak of old floorboards. Each episode of 'Holler Tales' is a self-contained folk horror story rooted in the hollows and hills of Appalachia: a bride who follows a lantern light into the woods and never returns; a well that speaks in the voice of a drowned child; a music box found in a collapsed root cellar that plays a song ...

From a private library wall, Luna removes a single black-bound book—its leather cracked, its twine binding tight. This is 'Bound in Black', an anthology of stories drawn from that volume alone. Each episode is a self-contained descent into a different kind of dread: a woman who finds a photograph of herself in a book she's never opened, a man whose reflection begins aging faster than he does, a town where every library book contains a single handwritten page about the reader's deepest fear. The stories share a unifying thread—the power of what is written, what is read, and what is left ...

Luna reads from a cache of letters discovered in the lantern room of a storm-battered lighthouse. Each episode unfolds a single letter — written by a lighthouse keeper who served a century ago — and the events that ripple into the present. The keeper's voice grows more desperate with each dispatch: his logbooks record a ship that appears on the horizon every night but never arrives, a fog that whispers, and a second lighthouse that flickers where none should be. Luna's narration is hushed, as if the lighthouse walls might be listening. This is a serialized descent into maritime isolation, ...

In a cabin at the edge of the Appalachian foothills, Luna sits at a roughhewn kitchen table, a mason jar of black salt in one hand. She sprinkles a line across the windowsill, a warding gesture older than the kerosene lamp that flickers beside a faded hex sign on the cabinet. Each episode of Backwoods and Black Salt is a self-contained story pulled from the dirt roads and hollows where folk magic meets raw survival. These are tales of crossroads bargains, milk-sick houses, and the things that rattle the horseshoe above the door. Luna speaks in a hush, as if the walls themselves might listen. ...

Deep in the Appalachian hollers, where fog clings to rhododendron thickets and black creeks run cold beneath mossy bridges, Luna gathers around a kerosene lamp and tells the stories that hollow out the land itself. 'Hollow Country' is an anthology of self-contained tales rooted in the geography of the American South — abandoned mining camps, half-sunken graveyards, crossroads that only appear during eclipses, and families who've been keeping secrets since before the railroad came through. Each episode stands alone, but every story shares a quiet, inevitable dread: the sense that the ...

In a rain-streaked room, by the light of a single oil lamp, Luna sits at her writing desk. The unfinished manuscript before her seems to write itself — each page curling with ink that tells stories she never planned to tell. The Lonely Chapter is an anthology of quiet, intimate horrors: the forgotten footnote in a library book that rewrites history, the last letter from a lighthouse keeper who vanished mid-sentence, the photograph that ages backward each time it's viewed. These are tales of solitude, of things found in the margins, of silences that speak louder than screams. Every episode ...

In the cold room, the dead are never truly gone. Luna stands in a stone cellar beneath an old house, where a brass candleholder casts shadows on walls that breathe with damp and memory. Each episode of Tales from the Cold Room is a standalone story whispered from that liminal space — not ghost stories in the traditional sense, but accounts of what lingers when the body fails and the soul refuses to leave. Here, a mortician finds a corpse whose eyes follow him. A child's voice echoes from a sealed well. A woman receives letters from her own gravestone. These are quiet horrors, intimate and ...

October is a month of thresholds—between harvest and rot, between the living and the dead. In 'Twelve Ways to Die in October', Luna tells twelve stories of people who crossed that threshold and didn't come back the same. Each episode is a standalone tale of seasonal dread: a scarecrow that remembers its maker's sins, a hayride that leads to a town that shouldn't exist, a jack-o'-lantern that grins with teeth that weren't carved. The stories unfold in the amber glow of a dying fire, where every shadow has a voice and every fallen leaf hides a name. This is not a series with a single ...

In the shadow of the Adirondack High Peaks, where the old-growth forest meets blackwater lakes, Ranger Luna sorts through decades of incident reports that never made it to public record. Each episode of The Adirondack Files is a standalone tale of the strange and the deeply wrong that occurs when the boundary between wilderness and civilization thins to nothing. These are not ghost stories in the traditional sense; they are accounts of misread maps that lead to valleys that should not exist, of hunting blinds that vanish in the fog leaving only a blood-soaked rifle, of a canoe that drifts out ...

In the deep winter of the Northwoods, something leaves tracks that shouldn't exist. Luna brings you a collection of standalone stories set in the frozen wild — each a quiet, bitter encounter with the unknown at the edge of human warmth. From frostbitten trails that loop back on themselves to a cabin where the snow never stops falling, every episode follows a single witness into the white and the cold. These are not monster stories with teeth and claws; they are the slow dread of a misplaced footprint, the wrongness of a silent forest, the feeling that the snow itself is watching. Luna's ...

In a forgotten municipal archive, Luna sorts through boxes of case files that were never meant to leave the building. The Archivist is a serialized horror podcast where each episode uncovers another document from the Sycamore Ridge missing-persons collection — a century of vanishings, each tied to a symbol carved into trees along the ridge. Luna speaks in the quiet hush of a reading room, her voice the only sound as she turns brittle pages. The stories are slow, methodical, dread-soaked: a librarian who walked into the stacks and never came out, a child's drawing that accurately predicted ...

Louisiana's bayous are not just water and trees; they are veins of memory, grief, and hunger. In Bayou After Dark, Luna guides you through a world where the cypress roots hold secrets and the mist carries whispers of those who never made it home. Each episode is a self-contained story drawn from the folklore, history, and hidden corners of the American South: a trapper who catches something in his net that should not exist, a bride whose wedding veil is made of Spanish moss, a family who hears their own voices calling from the swamp at night. These are not jump scares. They are slow, ...

In the fog-choked hollows of Appalachia, something ancient stirs beneath the roots of sycamore and hemlock. Luna returns to the bones of Hollow County, where her grandmother's cabin still leans against the ridge, and where the deer watch from the treeline with too-human eyes. Here, the mailman's truck has been circling the same gravel loop for three days. Here, the well behind the church doesn't hold water—it holds whispers. In each episode, Luna walks the hollow roads and rotting porches, collecting the stories the county tries to bury: a game warden who found a deer with a woman's hand in ...

Dispatch is a serialized horror podcast that unfolds in the static-crackle of late-night radio. Luna plays a night-shift broadcaster at WKRK, a low-watt station in the dying town of Sycamore Ridge, where the only callers are the dead. Each episode is a live transmission: a missing persons alert that becomes a confession, a weather report that describes a storm that hasn't arrived, a dedication that summons something from the woods. As the episodes progress, Luna's voice grows thinner, the signal more unstable, and the callers begin to describe the same thing—a figure standing at the edge of ...

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 ...

In a forgotten wing of the Blackwood Museum, Luna wears white cotton gloves as she opens a brass display case. The object inside — a tarnished pocket-watch that doesn't tick, but hums — is the first of many. Each episode of 'The Curator' follows Luna as she examines a new acquisition for the museum's 'Anomalous Artifacts' collection: a mirror that reflects a room you're not standing in, a music box that plays a song from the year you died, a child's doll that ages one year every night. But the pocket-watch is the key. As Luna catalogs each object, she begins to notice connections — ...

In the static between connections, Luna sits at a vintage telephone switchboard, plugging into lines that should have been disconnected decades ago. Each episode of Whisper Lines is a self-contained horror story triggered by a wrong number, a silent call, or a voice that was never on the other end. From a child's toy phone ringing with a mother's forgotten lullaby to a late-night operator redirecting a call to a graveyard, these tales explore the fragile boundary between communication and the dead. Luna's hushed narration threads through tales of switchboard ghosts, phantom dial tones, and ...